


Across the Desert

by TheWaywardBride



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Love/Hate, M/M, Multi, Sexual Content, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-03-15 20:55:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3461702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWaywardBride/pseuds/TheWaywardBride
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The infamous John Murphy has returned to them with the same smirk and bad attitude, but with a proposition they can't ignore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Follow The Leader

Bile pushes up the back of his throat when he spots the fence from the distance. It’s wide open, and there is no one standing guard that he can see, no movement at all. They’re getting close now, but it’s still quiet but for the buzzing of flies around his head and the soft padding of footsteps behind him. Way too fucking quiet.

“What’s wrong, John?” Murphy can feel the weight of Emori’s stare without turning back to her. It’s a sensation he’s grudgingly grown used to. She always seems to be looking at him. It, unfortunately, doesn’t seem to his irresistible handsomeness that warrants such unwavering interest. He thinks she might be searching for something, though he can never quite say what.

“Nothing,” he lies. “We’re almost there.”

She moves to stand next to him, and he makes the mistake of meeting her eyes. They are wide and brown and beautiful and so goddamn _concerned_ for him. “Are you nervous about seeing them again? Your people?”

“No. And they’re not my people.”

 _Liar_ , he thinks, as he looks back to the fence and takes another step forward. The others follow him without question. The dread twisting his insides into knots must not read on his face yet. Even if it did, he’s not sure it would deter them much, if at all. They’ve been following him around like scared little ducklings since their beloved Chancellor got himself shot in the head.

Murphy wonders what Jaha would think of all of this, of his most reluctant and selfish follower risking his life to bring these people back to a place he had hoped he’d never see again. Murphy could have made a life for himself in the desert with Emori after learning the City of Light was nothing that Jaha had promised it would be, but the other survivors weren’t strong enough. They were tired and broken. They felt betrayed and lost. They looked at him with desperation in their eyes and begged him to take them home. Though it wasn’t without a sneer on his lips and a curse on his tongue, home he had brought them in the end. Or as close to home as any of them knew. The old, crazy asshole probably would have been proud of him.

“How long have we been gone?”

The man with the graying red hair has been asking him that since they left, and Murphy has yet to answer. Time is a long forgotten concept to him now. There is no time in the desert, only the brutal heat of day and the frigid cold of night, only thirst and sand and death. He isn’t sure how many nights have passed since he brought Jaha to his son’s grave and consequently found himself sucked into a madman’s final, desperate quest to feel like his life meant something. Weeks? Months? A year?

“This doesn’t feel right.” Murphy halts at the edge of the woods, and the others stop with him, fearful and obedient as always.

Emori moves to his side again, her arm brushing against his in the process. His skin tingles. She always seems to be touching him, too. A hand on his back, a casual move to push a free strand of hair from his face, her head on his shoulder at night—the gestures are all given freely and without fanfare, as if they are nothing at all, as if they should be expected. It had felt good in the desert, nice to be touched by someone who wasn’t trying to kill him, but it felt wrong here. Maybe it really had been months since he left, but it suddenly felt like only yesterday the Grounders were ripping out his fingernails one by one, only yesterday Bellamy was smashing his fists into Murphy’s face with a zeal most reserve for more erotic pursuits, and only yesterday the one person he thought he might be able to convince to give a shit about him held a gun to his head and tried to trade his life for her mopey, village-massacring ex-boyfriend’s. Inside that fence, people had only ever touched him to hurt him.

“What is it?”

“The fence, it’s open.”

“And?”

“And it shouldn’t be,” Murphy drawls, barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Emori is the first friend he’s had since Mbege died, and he’s  _trying_. Being anything but an asshole has never come easy, not since he found his mother dead in her own vomit.

“What if they—?” The question lingers in the air, unfinished. He doesn’t want to spook the others, not yet. He had never even considered they could be dead. Even as surrounded by enemies as they were when he left, he couldn’t imagine the Princess or Bellamy or even Bellamy’s obnoxious, half-Grounder little sister falling to them. They always seemed so goddamned sure of themselves in a way Murphy’s not even sure he could hope to imitate.

“We have to look, John. We came all this way.” Emori is staring at him again, and it makes him want to crawl into a cave and never come out. He wishes she’d knock it off.

 _Why the fuck did I do this?_ He should have just let them all die in the desert. It would have been their own faults for not being strong enough to survive. And what had they ever done for him besides annoy the ever-loving shit out of him anyways?

But Emori is right. She usually is. They have journeyed too far and lost too much not to keep going. And he knows his own curiosity wouldn’t allow him to turn back now even if he wanted to. “Fine, let’s get on with it then. Get your knife ready.” He is about to take another cautious step toward Camp Jaha— _Are they still calling it that?_ —but the snap of a twig sends his hand flying to the dagger tucked into his belt. “Who’s there?” he shouts, as everyone but Emori scrambles to get behind him. _Fucking cowards._

“Holy shit. _Murphy_ , is that you?”

The sound of _his_ voice knocks the air right out of Murphy’s lungs, and his arm falls back to his side, limp and useless. Murphy’s chest caves forward and his shoulders fall, deflated, already defeated. Somehow seeing his face when he emerges from behind a nearby tree is even worse. His hair is longer, his nose more freckled, and there’s a scar running down the right side of his face Murphy doesn’t remember being there before—and, oh, he’d remember—but he’s still the same Bellamy Blake. He’s still the boy— _man maybe, how old is Bellamy anyways_?—Murphy hadn’t been able to stop thinking about since Jaha dropped them down on this hellhole to die.

“The one and only,” Murphy drones. “You gonna hit me now?”

Bellamy smirks. Fucking smirks. “Don’t know. You gonna give me a reason to, Murphy?”

“Didn’t plan on it, no,” he answers, tucking his knife back into his belt, hoping it conveys peaceful intentions. “I’ve come a long fucking way. Don’t quite have the fortitude for one of your beatings at the moment, much as I’ve missed them.”

Emori steps forward before Murphy can think to hold her back. The others are still cowering behind him—the Arkers didn't worship precious, noble, insufferable Bellamy Blake like the delinquents did—but she shows no fear. She never does. Without so much as a hello, she leans in close to Bellamy’s face, closer than he seems entirely comfortable with judging by how he recoils from her. The way his eyes widen almost makes Murphy laugh.

“You are Bellamy. Bellamy Blake, right?” When Bellamy nods, Emori backs away slightly and holds out her hand, her boring hand. She still insists on keeping the badass one hidden away. “I’m Emori. John has told me a lot about you.”

 _Oh god, shut up, shut up, shut up_. He digs his nails into the palms of his hands to keep from screaming. He’s not proud of the near overwhelming urge to tackle Emori that grips him in that moment, but the blush he can feel creeping up his neck into his cheeks makes him wish he were dead. Or that Bellamy was dead. Or that they all were just fucking dead.

Bellamy glances over Emori’s shoulder at him with another smirk that makes Murphy’s nostrils flare. “Has he now? You miss me, _John_?”

 _Don’t call me that._ “I told her about what an asshole you were, Blake,” Murphy says, as casually as he can manage with Bellamy’s eyes fixed on him. “What’s happening back there, huh?” He nods toward Camp Jaha, both genuinely interested and anxious to change the subject. “Why’s the gate open? You all develop a death wish without me around?”

Bellamy shakes his head. “There’s no one we need to keep out anymore. Except the occasional wild animal and you, maybe. But we all thought you were dead.” There’s a strange touch of something like fondness in the way Bellamy says that last part Murphy is sure he must be imagining.

“We defeated the Grounders then? And Mt. Weather?” An older woman whose name Murphy has never bothered to remember— _Ashlyn? Emlyn? Allan?_ —asks. “We won?”

“We won,” Bellamy confirms, puffing out his chest a little. _Jackass._ “The Grounders are our allies now. We’ve been looking for the other dropships that left from the Ark. And we’ve been looking for you, too.” Bellamy meets Murphy’s eyes then, and his stomach starts twisting itself back into knots. “Chancellor Griffin seems to think Jaha took you all on some sort of quest—”

“The City of Light,” the redheaded man interrupts. “That’s where he took us. He said it would be our salvation, and that we would be safe, but it was nothing but another trap.”

“They have power, but they’re a harsh people,” Emori explains, her eyes still locked on Bellamy’s face. Murphy enjoys the way the older boy seems to squirm under the attention. It’s nice to know it’s not just him she scares the hell out of. “They’re fearful of letting others in and polluting the bloodline.”

“Not so fearful of murdering them when they come knocking at the gates though,” Murphy says bitterly. “That is how our beloved Chancellor met his real destiny, crying and babbling like a lunatic until a bullet went through his skull.”

“Don’t talk about the Chancellor like that,” the redheaded man snaps. “Who are _you_ to talk about him like that?”

A strangled sort of laugh comes out of him. “Who am _I_?” he asks, stalking toward the idiotic little man. “I’m the person who saved your useless life, asshole,” Murphy sneers. “I’m your real fucking messiah.” The others turn and glare at him like he’s resurrected Jaha just to murder him in front of them again. Only minutes back in his old home, and they’ve already started to turn on him. The rapid shift in opinion doesn’t come as much of a surprise. They _needed_ him back in the desert, but only Emori ever really _liked_ him. Maybe the familiar surroundings have simply reminded everyone how much they hate him when he isn’t actively saving their asses from certain death.

Bellamy is looking back and forth between Murphy and the others with an expression Murphy can’t quite read. An eternity seems to go by in silence, and Murphy can feel his fists starting to flex. If they’re already back to hating him, it’s only a matter of time before someone decides to open the old wounds that still litter his face. But “You all look like you could use some food and a good sleep,” is all Bellamy says when he finally speaks. “Follow me.”

Murphy does follow. It’s the first time in who knows how long he’s followed instead of lead. It should bother him, the way his people have attached themselves to a new leader so quickly and with so little gratitude. But, instead, he feels lighter, freer, and almost pleased. He likes power well enough, he supposes, but what no one seems to tell you is that being in power is far too much of having to listen to other people’s fucking problems.

 

* * *

  

The bath almost makes him feel human again. Without a thick layer of dirt coating his skin, he can finally see himself. He’s darker now than he realized, darker than he’s ever been, tanned and freckled from the desert sun. He’s skinnier, too, he learns, as he runs his calloused hands down his torso and counts each of his ribs one by one.

“You look like you could use a decent meal.”

Murphy yelps so loudly and so fucking prissily, he’s not sure he’ll ever stop being embarrassed. _Fucking Bellamy._ “What the hell do you want?” he all but shouts. “Ever heard of privacy, Blake?”

“I was bringing you food, asshole,” Bellamy grunts, dropping a plate of brown slop on the small table at the end of his tent. He has no idea what it is, but it makes Murphy’s mouth water. “Ever heard of a thank you, Murphy?”

Murphy is about to spit something back when he suddenly and painfully becomes aware of just how few clothes he’s wearing. Only a threadbare—but, mercifully, clean—pair of underwear is keeping Bellamy from seeing _all_ of him. He’s had dreams about this before, of Bellamy being in his tent, but, in those dreams, both of them had been missing their pants. This just seemed unfair.

 _Don’t even fucking go there right now_ , he thinks when he feels a tug low in his gut. He quickly reaches for the pants laid out on his bed, but his head is buzzing and his legs have turned to jelly beneath him and Bellamy is still staring at him and, before he knows it, he’s tripping over his own fucking feet and on to the floor.

 _This isn’t happening_ , he thinks, as he nearly face plants, only just catching himself with his elbows. _This isn’t fucking happening._

“Whoa, there. You okay, Murphy?” Two rough hands press against the ribs he had just been counting. He can feel Bellamy’s warmth behind him, can smell the pine and soap and sweat that lingers on his skin, and it overwhelms every part of him. The bile pushes at Murphy’s throat again, and this time he can’t swallow it down. With a violent sort of choking noise, he retches at the foot of his bed.

This isn’t how it was supposed to go at all. This isn’t the way he imagined all of this playing out when he was drying up in the desert sun. It was supposed to be different this time. He was supposed to show up with his head held high, a dozen thankful followers at his feet singing his praises, like fucking Jesus in the flesh. He was supposed to talk about how he had crossed the desert to bring Jaha’s misguided acolytes back home to safety. He was supposed to be a hero, a changed man, not a naked, pathetic loser throwing up on the floor for no reason. Especially not in front of Bellamy Blake.

“You’re probably dehydrated,” Bellamy reasons, before lifting Murphy up like he’s nothing but a rag doll and setting him on the edge of the bed. “Drink this.”

Murphy narrows his eyes but takes the bottle being offered to him and does as he’s told. How quickly he seems to fall back in to old habits. Despite coming from Bellamy, the water is wonderfully cold and eases some of the burning in his throat. After his head finally stops spinning, he pushes the bottle back at Bellamy and reaches for the pants again. “All right, you win. Can you fuck off now?”

One of Bellamy’s eyebrows shoots up. “I win?”

“I’m pathetic, I get it,” Murphy hisses, as he struggles with the buttons of the fly. “You’ve successfully put me back in my place, so congratulations. Believe me, I had no delusions of grandeur coming back here.” His hands are shaking, because of course they are, and the buttons are slipping through his fingers like they’re made of ice and he can’t seem to manage even the basic task of putting on his own goddamned pants.

“What are you talking about, Murphy?”

“Go away,” he grumbles, as a button slips through his fingers again.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, just let me.” Bellamy’s hands move to replace Murphy’s, and it’s over. Murphy’s entire life is over. Because the barest brush of Bellamy’s knuckles over his cock sends a surge of blood through him like he hasn’t felt since Emori dropped her clothes in front of him and looked at him—dark skin and bare breasts shining in the moonlight—like it was a dare.

Murphy’s fist is flying across Bellamy’s face and cracking against his cheekbone before he even fully realizes what he’s doing. That Bellamy barely flinches shows just how much havoc the journey back has wreaked on his body. _Great, you barely tapped him, and now he’s going to kill you._ He’s not sure if it’s worth even trying to fight back. It would probably just piss him off more.

But, to his surprise, Bellamy doesn’t kill him. Doesn’t even hit him back. The obnoxious little smirk that stretches across his face is worse than any punch. “You’re sending me mixed signals here, Murphy,” he says, his eyes dropping.

Murphy follows his gaze and sees what Bellamy sees, his traitorous cock pushing up against his underwear. He’s harder than he can ever remember being, and he’s never hated himself more. “I’m with Emori,” he blurts out. He isn’t sure why he says it. First, it’s a lie. He never did take her up on that dare, couldn’t quite convince himself that she really wanted him to. Second, why should Bellamy give a shit? It doesn’t explain away the fucking hard-on Bellamy’s hands on his fly just gave him.

The smirk doesn’t budge, and Murphy barely restrains himself from punching him again. He might have, if he thought it’d actually make him go away. “She’s pretty.”

“Yeah, and she’s a good fuck,” he growls, narrowing his eyes in the way he knows makes him look more dangerous than he is. _A good fuck?_ _Oh god, what are you even saying?_

It’s that, of all things, that makes Bellamy frown. “You haven’t changed a bit, have you?”

That stings more than Murphy would ever admit. Even if the crazy bastard had nearly led him to his death, Jaha had changed him in some ways. The John Murphy who landed on earth with a barely suppressed rage coursing hot through his veins never could have made it across that desert without killing at least one of those idiots. _That_ John Murphy probably never would have helped them in the first place, would have left them to wither and die without a second thought.

“Guess not.”

“Hard to believe. Those people are saying you saved them, you know.”

“Yeah, well, they better. They wouldn’t have lasted two days without me and Emori saving their dumb asses.” Murphy turns away from him and finally manages to get his stupid pants buttoned. When he successfully pulls on his shirt on the first try, he finally feels like he can breathe again.

“Why’d you do it? Come back?”

“They would’ve died out there.”

“And what do you care?”

Murphy isn’t sure how to answer that question, because he doesn’t care about them, not really. “I don’t know.” He shrugs, keeping his eyes focused on the floor. “It felt like the right thing to do, I guess.”

“The right thing to do," Bellamy repeats slowly, like he can't believe those words just came out of Murphy's mouth.

“Can we just skip the foreplay? What is it you want from me, Blake?” Murphy snaps, growing exhausted of being asked questions he doesn’t know how to answer. “Were you expecting me to be someone else? Some sweet, gaping idiot who would follow you and Clarke around with wide eyes like everyone else? Where is the Princess anyways? Too busy for the likes of me?”

“I don’t want to talk about Clarke,” Bellamy says through clenched teeth.

That makes Murphy stand up a little straighter. There’s a sullenness in Bellamy’s tone that intrigues him. “You and the Princess have a falling out then?”

“Something like that, yeah,” Bellamy says. “It was during the war with Mt. Weather. She knew they were going to bomb a Grounder village, but she did nothing to stop it. She just left Octavia and the others there to die.”

Murphy is tempted to make a crack about Octavia, that pisses Bellamy off more than anything else and might actually make him leave, but he holds back. It’s not often that Bellamy talks to him, not like this at least, and the novelty of it is enough for him to keep from running his mouth. “Well, I assume she had her reasons, yeah?” he says. “Clarke doesn’t strike me as the watch a village burn for the fun of it type. Unless she’s kinkier than I imagined. And, boy, have I imagined.”

Bellamy’s upper lip ticks up in disgust. “It doesn’t matter. People died because of her. _Our people_.”

“People have died because of all of us, haven’t they?” When Bellamy doesn’t grace that with an answer, Murphy shrugs and doesn’t push it further. “Whatever you say, boss.” He falls back on to his bed and lets his limbs sprawl out over the soft fabric. He doesn’t even think twice about the way his legs fall open, or the way Bellamy’s eyes glimpse briefly at his crotch. That one moment of vulnerability from the great Bellamy Blake was all he needed to feel like himself again. “Will you fuck off now, or did you want to try to grab my dick again?"

Bellamy huffs out a laugh. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Murphy doesn’t answer, just stares up at the ceiling impassively, trying not to think about how much he _would_ like that. “Fine,” Bellamy finally relents, holding up his hands. “But you better eat that when I leave. You look like a good breeze would blow you away.”

“Yeah, thanks, mom.”

Bellamy huffs again, and with that, he’s gone.

 

* * *

  

“I’ve been fucking _summoned_. Can you believe that? Doesn’t even leave her stupid tent to tell me herself. Sends some smelly Grounder bitch to do it for her. And that bitch has the nerve to tell me I better be on time, like I ever know what fucking time it is anymore.” Emori doesn’t answer, just grips his hand tighter and keeps pulling along through the darkness. “Where are we going anyways? I was looking forward to an actual night’s sleep _on a bed_ , you know.”

“I found something.”

“Please, be vaguer.”

She gives his arm a sharp tug at that, but he thinks he hears her laugh. “A spring,” she elaborates. “Like the one we saw on the way here.” Murphy’s cock jumps for the second time that day, and he’s thankful Emori is facing away from him. “Do you remember?”

Of course he remembers. It had been just sitting there, on the edge of the desert like a sign from the higher power Jaha was always raving on about—cool, bubbling, blue water after weeks and weeks of thirst. None of them had even hesitated to drop their clothes and jump in, to lap the water up with their hands like animals and let the sand and dirt run off them in dark waves.

He was the first to leave. He didn’t want the rest of them to see the smile he couldn’t seem to keep off his face, lest they mistake him for someone who gave a shit. She had followed after him though, and when he turned, he found her standing behind him with a grin to match his own, clothes puddled around her feet and her eyes on his lips.

“Emori—”

“ _Shush_ , John.” She gives him one last tug forward and then stops. He can hear the sound of water, cutting through the quiet of the night, but he can’t quite see where it starts.

“You couldn’t have showed me this in the morning? You know, when I could actually see it.”

She mutters something under her breath and drops his hand. He immediately misses the feel of her skin against his. “Sorry, didn’t meant to piss you off.”

“You didn’t.” She’s sitting now. He thinks her feet might in the water, but he can only just make out the hunched over outline of her form. “Sit with me, John.”

Again, he does as he’s told. It might take time, but he’ll get good at it again. It was the only way to survive when he had come back to the group after shooting Raven and trying to string Bellamy up. _Keep your head down and do as you’re told and they might not kill you like you deserve._ He slips off his shoes and lets his feet sink into the cool water. A moan slips from his lips, as the muscles in his legs tense and then relax again.

“Few men have turned me away, you know, even with the hand,” she speaks, almost timidly. “As long as I kept it covered up.”

 _Shit, she can’t seriously think I care about the hand._ “That’s because you’re fucking hot. Your hand, too.”

Emori snorts. “Oh, John, such a way with words.”

“Yeah, well, never claimed to be a poet.”

“True, you are nothing if not self-aware.”

“I’m not sure if I should take that as a compliment or not.”

“It was meant as one, for what it's worth.” She sighs and then leans to rest her head on his shoulder. This is how they had slept in the desert, her body against his, the slow rise and fall of her breath just by his ear. “Are you in love with him?”

Murphy feels his entire body tense, like a bow ready to snap. “In love with _who_?”

“The leader boy. Bellamy. You look at him like you might be.”

There’s the bile again, but there’s no way he’s going to make a fool out of himself again today. Besides, she's wrong. It isn't love, he doesn't think, though he's not sure if he'd know if it was. “Fuck no,” he practically yells. “You do realize he tried to kill me, right? For something I didn’t even do? And that I tried to kill him? Almost made him hang himself. All these scars on my face, I wouldn’t be surprised if more than half of them are from that prickly bastard.”

He feels her shrug. “It was just a question, John.”

“It was a stupid question.”

“Then what’s stopping you?”

He’s tempted to play dumb, like he had that night at the spring. If he acts like he isn’t sure what she means, she won’t push the issue. But now that they’ve finally stopped moving, he feels like he can’t keep running away. “You can’t possibly want me.”

Her head snaps up, and her nose brushes against the edge of his jaw. “What?”

“If you knew me, you wouldn’t want me. You’d regret it.”

“I _do_ know you,” she argues. “Better than any of _them_ do.”

He thinks she might not be wrong there. She’s the only person, other than that psycho bitch Reyes, who he’s told about his life before earth. She’s the only person he’s ever complained to about the hypocrisy of the 100, about how they branded him an outsider from day one. “Well, it’s not because of your hand,” he says. “That’s for fucking sure.” And to prove he’s telling the truth, he reaches out and takes hold of it. She tries to pull away, but he doesn’t let her. No, he pulls it into his lap and slowly peels away the cloth she wraps it in until it’s free.

Some kind of madness takes over him then, because he leans down and presses his lips to the inside of her wrist. The way she shudders against him only spurs him on. He drags his lips up to her palm and then to the edge of one of her long fingers.

He’s about to move to the other one, to let his tongue get in on the action, when she grabs his chin and forces him to meet her eyes instead. They look even more beautiful with the moonlight reflected in them. “What stopped you then? What _really_ stopped you?”

God, she’s just like Bellamy, asking him questions he has no idea how to answer. Introspective is not a word he would use to describe himself. Thinking on the things he’s done and the _why_ behind them is only a surefire way to depress the hell out of himself. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know,” she repeats.

“Yeah, I don’t know a lot of things, Emori,” he continues. “Maybe I don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t lose me, John Murphy.”

He grunts and falls backwards, letting the back of his head hit the ground with a soft thud. He keeps hold of her hand and takes her down with him, so they are both looking up at the stars above them. “These people hate me. They’ll try to make you hate me, too.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“Yeah, well, we’ll see.”

She shifts next to him, turning on to her side and draping one of her legs over his. With a contented little giggle, she tucks her face into Murphy’s neck and breathes, sending a shiver down his back. “Friends trust each other, John. They're not constantly worried about doing something wrong.”

“Is that what we are? Friends?”

She presses a kiss to the edge of his jaw, just below his ear. He wraps his arm around her in response, pulling her closer to him. The only answer she gives him is a quiet _hmm_ , but it’s all he needs. “I couldn’t sleep in the tent they gave me," she tells him. "I missed the stars.”

The _I missed you_  part remains unspoken, but Murphy knows it’s there. “We can sleep here, if you want. We can sleep here as long as you like.”

He feels her nod. “Do you know what you’re going to say to them tomorrow? When you’re summoned,” she whispers against his throat.

He swallows and tries to stay focused on how warm Emori feels wrapped in his arms, tries not to think about the way Clarke and Raven and Octavia and all of the others will look at him when he faces them again. “I’m thinking of just telling them to fuck off.”

Emori laughs and kisses the spot below his ear again. “That’s my John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is mostly just setting things up, more of an actual plot will be introduced in the next chapter when Murphy faces Clarke. Thank you for reading!


	2. The Secrets of the City

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A grin is spreading across his lips that probably makes him look like a crazy person, which certainly isn't going to help his cause, but he can’t help it. He feels the gears turning. He feels the pieces locking into place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay with this! I started reconsidering the story after the finale. This is still going to be a divergence, but it will now incorporate some of the new things we learned in the last episode. It will be a little longer now, but hopefully a fun ride. Thanks for reading!

The morning swim is probably overkill after the bath he took just yesterday, but it can’t hurt to be especially clean today. Sand and dirt still cling stubbornly to his twisted locks of hair, which Emori had been kind enough to tidy up for him, and under his fingernails. Despite the lingering presence of the desert, Emori smiles and tells him he looks like a new person. She looks different, too. He likes the way her hair falls now that it's clean, wrapping around her shoulders in soft, loose curls. He wants to twirl one of them around his finger to see if they are as soft as they look. He wants to tell her how pretty she is free of all the fabrics that kept them from burning up in the sun. But he does neither.

The sun is just beginning to rise above the horizon when he leaves Emori at her tent and makes his way toward his own. With any luck, there might be just enough time for him to catch a nap on an actual bed before he is forced to face the Princess. Camp Jaha—he never did ask Bellamy if they changed the name—is disconcertingly still. It is nothing like he remembers. Back then, before he left, it had been constant chaos, even in these early hours. No one ever slept long, not when the threat of death constantly loomed just outside the fence. Having nothing to fear feels wrong. It feels lazy and complacent, and he can’t seem to shake the surety that something is about to go horribly wrong.

But not everyone’s sleeping peacefully. Out of the corner of his eye, Murphy spots Bellamy Blake leaning against a tree by his tent, hands on his knees, staring out at nothing at all as far as he can tell.

“You’re up early, Blake.”

Murphy doesn’t think Bellamy saw him approach, but the older boy doesn’t spook at the disruption, because of course he doesn’t. Instead, he just slowly pulls his eyes away from whatever he had been staring at and gives Murphy a quick onceover. “You’re wet.”

“You’re observant.”

“You’re obnoxious.”

There’s a smile tugging at the corners of Murphy’s lips. He bites down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep it from forming. “Well, Blake,” Murphy drawls, “Your wit is as thrilling as ever. I’ll just be on my way now.”

Murphy starts walking again, but Bellamy doesn’t let him get far. “You nervous about today?” he calls out after him, not quite loud enough to wake up any of his sleeping neighbors.

“I don’t know, has there been any talk of hanging me for no reason yet?”

Bellamy snorts. “We’d have our reasons, and you know it. But no, no talk of hanging. Our numbers are dwindling, and we’re not exactly in a hurry to kill off any more of own. And people seem to think the desert might have changed you, made you a new man or something like that.”

“Is that right?”

“ _Mhm_ , in a good way, too, if you can believe it,” he says. “I think it’s because of the girl—”

“Emori. Her name is Emori.”

Bellamy raises his eyebrows and continues, “Yeah, well, she, Emori, doesn’t appear to hate you with every fibre of her being, so the others are thinking she’s either violently insane or you’ve sprouted something like a conscience recently.”

“Could be she just likes me for me, violent tendencies and all,” Murphy suggests.

“And you like her, creepy staring and all?”

“Yeah, well, _she’s_ only punched me in the face once.”

Bellamy laughs again, louder this time, and Murphy hates the effect the sound seems to have on him. There’s a distinct fluttering in his gut, like he’s some damsel in a fairy story meeting her handsome prince for the first time. His mother used to read him those kinds of stories as a kid, and he thought they were stupid even then. “She’s a good person,” Murphy tells him, growing serious. “A better person than me. If you all decide you don’t want me here, I get it, whatever, just don’t take it out on her. If you need to make an example of me, just banish me again, and we’ll be fine in the desert—”

“Fuck, Murphy. I'm just trying to talk to you, would you cut it out? Why are you so convinced we’re going to _punish_ you?” Bellamy cuts in. “You realize this isn’t a trial, right? You realize you brought twelve of our people home safely? As long as you refrain from murdering and/or trying to murder anyone on the way to Clarke’s tent, nothing bad is going to happen. You get that, right?" 

Murphy looks away from him and down at his worn black boots. There are holes beginning to form around the toes, but they’re in considerably better shape than his old ones. Besides, there are holes in everything they wear nowadays. He kicks at a nearby rock and yawns loudly, stretching his arms over his head. He pretends to be bored with the conversation. He's found it's a good way to stall when he has absolutely no idea what to say.  _Why_ are _you so convinced they’re going to punish you?_

“Murphy? Hey, you still with me?” When Murphy doesn’t immediately respond, Bellamy stands and moves closer, only stopping when they’re within arms-length of each other. This close together, Murphy is able to see that he and Bellamy are nearly the same height now. It’s a surprising revelation. In all of his memories of Camp Jaha and the dropship, Bellamy is always towering over him. He’s still young, only seventeen or maybe eighteen, who knows anymore, so it’s possible he’s grown since they last met. Or maybe the disparity had always been in his head. “You _can_ refrain from murdering someone, right?”

“I’ll sure do my best, boss,” Murphy chirps. He bows his head slightly and salutes.

Bellamy rolls his eyes. “Will you stop calling me that? I’m not in charge anymore. I haven’t been for a while, and you know it.”

“No, I’m not sure that I do,” Murphy counters. “Seemed like you were in charge when I left. Please don’t tell me you guys are still pretending it’s the mother and not the daughter who’s calling the shots around here.”

“Yeah, we are, and I wouldn't suggest otherwise. I don’t think the adults much like the idea of taking orders from a bunch of teenage delinquents and one former janitor turned hired assassin, shockingly enough.”

Murphy gapes at him. He reaches out his hand to pat Bellamy on the shoulder but pulls it back at the last moment. “Holy shit, did you just make a joke, Blake?”

“I make plenty of jokes!" Bellamy huffs. "Can you have even one conversation without being an asshole?”

“Hasn’t happened yet.” It isn’t until Murphy sees the smile on Bellamy’s face that he realizes he’s grinning as well. It makes him think of the old days, when they had first arrived on the ground. Back then, these little spats had actually been fun, something Murphy looked forward to, rather than an inevitable fistfight waiting to happen.

Bellamy claps him on the shoulder, a little harder than Murphy thinks necessary, but he manages to stay steady on his feet. “Try not to piss any of the elders off, all right, Murph? They’re not so accustomed to your sunny personality as us.” After Murphy nods, Bellamy starts walking back to his tent. He stops just before opening and adds, “And remember, you’re one of us now. Stop thinking we’re just waiting around for an excuse to kill you.”

_You’re one of us._ Murphy didn’t realize how desperately he wanted to hear those words until they left Bellamy’s lips. He’s not entirely sure he trusts the sentiment, not yet, but it still feels like a weight has been lifted from his chest. “Whatever you say, boss!” Murphy calls back, saluting again for good measure, and Bellamy turns his head to give him the briefest of smiles before disappearing into the tent. The sight of it, the flash of white teeth, makes Murphy’s stomach do that obnoxious fluttering thing again. “Damn it,” he mutters, kicking at the dirt. "What is wrong with you?”

 

* * *

 

 

There’s no firing squad waiting for him when he follows a Grounder girl through the flap of Clarke Griffin’s tent. Despite Bellamy’s earlier assurances, Murphy still half-expects to walk into a hail of gunfire. The last conversation he shared with the Princess hadn’t exactly gone well, after all. _Looking for someone to blame, Griffin? Finn was out there looking for_ you _._

But there are no guns that he can see, not even a stray dagger. Clarke is sitting on a makeshift metal chair, hands folded in her lap, flanked by her mother and the Grounder commander. _Her_ presence is unanticipated and makes his shoulders tense around his neck. His fingers dance around his belt, even though he knows there are no weapons there. He remembers this woman, with her braided brown hair and blackened eyes. Though she had never actually touched him herself, she had watched on when her people smashed the blunt ends of their knives across his face, dragged the blades along his abdomen in excruciating circles, and screamed at him for information.

_Why the fuck does she need to be here?_ He wants to spit the question at them but manages to hold back. “Griffin,” he begins, nodding to Clarke. “Other Griffin,” he adds, acknowledging the Chancellor without actually looking at her. He makes no move to recognize the Grounder bitch.

“John Murphy.” Clarke says his name slowly, her eyes traveling from the holes in his boots to the tangled dreads holding his hair back from his forehead. “You look good.” There’s something like a smile on her face when she says it, and he feels his shoulders relax slightly. “You remember my mother, Chancellor Griffin. And Lexa, commander of Tri Kru and our ally." 

“Yeah, I remember. It would be hard to forget.” Murphy accidentally makes eye contact with Lexa then. It’s clear from the way her brow creases that she remembers him, but she doesn’t say anything. The deliberate silence fills him with rage. It’s hypocritical, he knows it is. He’s hurt people, too. He attacked Wells Jaha for no other reason than who he called father. What Lexa and her people did to him was an act of war, at least. And, really, what was torturing and infecting him when compared to the explosion that had wiped out hundreds of Grounders, when compared to Finn unleashing a stream of bullets upon a crowd of innocent villagers. Holding grudges is one of Murphy’s best talents, but if they could forget, he would have to learn to as well.

“Long time no see, Princess." He lets his eyes travel over her as well. She looks exactly the same to him, back straight, eyes narrowed. She’s a small girl, with a pretty face and sweet blue eyes, but she still makes for an imposing figure. “What can I do for you?” 

Clarke nods toward the empty the chair set up opposite from them, and he sits obediently. “You can start by telling us about where you’ve been.”

“And about what happened to Thelonious.” 

There’s worry written all over Abby Griffin’s face and in the way she unconsciously leans toward him. It almost makes him feel bad about the story he’s about to tell. “It started when Jaha asked me to show him his son’s grave,” Murphy begins. Clarke visibly flinches, and Murphy can’t stop himself from smirking at her. “Don’t worry, Princess, the irony of the situation was not lost on me.”

“We want the _concise_ version of the story, Murphy,” Clarke snaps back.

“Fine. I took him to the dropship like he wanted and then a group of Arkers showed up. He said they were going to find the City of Lights, made it out to be some kind of sanctuary or promised land,” Murphy explains, recalling the way the moonlight had shone on Jaha then, almost making him look like the heaven-sent messiah he clearly wanted to be. “Since I had nothing better to do, I left with him.” 

“Since you had nothing better to do,” Clarke drones, “You decided to go on a suicide mission across a desert?”

“Sounds about right, yeah." He isn't about to admit he left because he was afraid of the Grounders, because he couldn’t stand the way the other delinquents looked at him like he was a bomb just waiting to go off. “We made it, across the desert. It wasn’t easy, but we made it. The City of Lights does exist. But I wouldn’t call it a sanctuary.”

“What would you call it then?” Dr. Griffin asks.

“A trap,” Murphy says. “They want people to find them, but they’ll only let certain people in.”

“What kind of people?”

Murphy shrugs. “I don’t know exactly, perfect people, I guess. People who came out right, you know? The radiation wreaked havoc on the population down here, left a lot of them with birth defects, physically and mentally. Emori, the girl who came here with me, was a part of them once, but she didn’t come out right. They kept her locked up until she reached a certain age and then threw her out into the Dead Zone to die.” Murphy pauses for a moment and meets Dr. Griffin's eyes. “Barbaric, isn’t it? Sending kids to die.”

Dr. Griffin’s mouth tightens into a hard line, but it’s Clarke who speaks. “Stick to the story, Murphy.”

“Well, it turned out to be on an island, the City. We eventually got there, but they didn’t want to let everyone inside. They wanted to _inspect_ us first. Jaha fucking lost it at that. He started shouting at them, yelling that they were supposed to be a place for everyone to start over, and the next thing we know, he’s got a bullet through his skull.” Abby gasps, and Murphy feels a little guilty about not breaking that part of the story more gently. “They wanted to take some of us in, I think, but our dead leader didn’t exactly inspire confidence, so we left.”

“And you came back here,” Clarke finishes for him.

“And we came back here,” Murphy confirms. “I wanted to stay in the desert with Emori and her people, but the others weren’t so keen on the idea.”

“So you were going to abandon your people?” They are the first words Lexa speaks, and he’s not surprised what she has to say is maddening.

“Trust me, they didn’t miss me,” Murphy practically spits at her. “And, as you can now see, I didn’t exactly have much to offer. No promised land, no sanctuary, just a mystery behind a gate.” Silence falls over them for longer than Murphy is comfortable with. They’re all just staring at him, and he can tell they’re trying to decide if he can be trusted or not. He fucking hates being stared at. “The others will back me up on everything," he blurts out. "You can think this is some kind of ploy if you really want to, but—”

“I remember you, John Murphy,” Lexa suddenly interrupts. She gets up from her seat and runs one of her knuckles over the scar that loops under his left eye. Murphy feels his heart begin to race. He wants to recoil from her, wants to retreat from the tent entirely, but she's back in her seat before he can react. He quickly crosses his arms and tucks his hands under his armpits, so they won’t see the way his hands are shaking. Clarke and Dr. Griffin turn their heads to look at Lexa. Their diverted attention is only a small relief, but he’ll take what he can get.

“I would hope so,” he says, voice wavering. “You did almost kill me.”

“We were never going to kill you,” Lexa sighs. “You were no use to us dead.”

“ _You_ tortured Murphy?” Clarke gasps. “And sent him back to us infected?”

Lexa glances at Clarke only briefly before meeting his eyes again. He does his absolute best not to look away. “It took three days for him to tell us what we needed to know,” Lexa recalls. “I’ve seen stronger men crack on the first day.”

_Fuck, was that a compliment?_ “Is that your way of saying I can be trusted?”

“No, it's not. I've also seen stronger men go to the grave with their secrets," she tells him. "That’s only my way of saying _Clarke_ might be able to trust you, but my people will not forget you were also in the village that day.”

“Hey, look, I—”

Lexa holds up her hand to stop him, clearly not interested in what he has to say on the matter. “Let him stay, if you wish,” Lexa tells Clarke, as she rises from her chair. Her voice is cold enough to send a chill down his spine. “My people will not challenge it.” And, with that, she’s gone.

“Well, that was interesting. Always nice to see old friends.” He uncrosses his arms and lets his posture relax. “Now, I think it’s time _you_ did some explaining, Princess. How is it we came to defeat the bad guys in the mountain? And why aren’t we there now? Didn’t they have, like, showers and shit?”

“Because we burned it down,” Dr. Griffin says.  “We took what we needed and burned the rest. We couldn’t stay there after what happened.”

“And that was?”

Clarke frowns and, for the first time since the meeting started, doesn’t look him in the eye. “We killed them all. _I_ killed them all. They were going to murder us for our bone marrow, so I shut down their air system, let the radiation in and killed every single one of them.”

Murphy feels his mouth fall open, and his stomach sinks to his toes. He leans in close to her, elbows on his thighs, wondering if he had actually heard her correctly. After a few minutes, her words finally sink in. “Well, holy shit. Look at you, Princess. A Grounder village and a mountain full of people.”

Clarke startles and looks around her, as if paranoid someone else might be listening in. “And who the hell told you about that?” she hisses low, just above a whisper. “That is _not_ common knowledge, Murphy. If the others found out, if Lexa’s people found out, the entire alliance could be in jeopardy. And trust me, we don’t need that. Lexa abandoned us at Mt. Weather, you know. Made a deal with the Mountain Men, and we had to do it all ourselves. This alliance is barely holding up as it is, without you saying things like that. Lexa's only here because I'm holding it over her head.”

Murphy holds up his hands in surrender. “Relax, Princess, I can keep a secret.” He considers telling her Bellamy is the one who spilled the truth to him. There’s something appealing about the idea of driving an even greater wedge between them, but again, he holds back. The desert has apparently done wonders for his self-control. “No judgement here. I’m impressed." 

“Well, that’s comforting.” Sarcasm practically oozes from the words, and Murphy smirks. It only took becoming a mass murderer for the Princess to develop a sense of humor. “Thank you for coming here. I think we have all of the information we need.”

He’s about to nod and go running back to Emori’s tent when an idea suddenly strikes him. It’s completely insane, of course, but the thought of possibly having something to offer the Arkers is a surprisingly exciting one. He wonders if this is how Jaha felt when he first learned of the City of Lights. “Can I have a moment alone, Clarke?” he asks, as politely as he's capable of.

“No,” Dr. Griffin says without hesitation. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Clarke."

“Mom, stop, it’s fine,” Clarke says, waving her hand. “Murphy’s a good boy now. Aren’t you, Murphy?”

“That’s right, I’ve been properly reformed, Dr. Griffin," Murphy agrees, with a grin. "Plus, I’m pretty sure the village burner over here could take me.”

Dr. Griffin’s face contorts at that, her mouth twisting into a sneer that might have scared him once, when she had the power to float people for less. Holding grudges isn’t his only talent, pushing just the right buttons to get people to look at him like _that_ is up there as well. He thinks the Chancellor might actually abandon her usual composure and pounce on him, but Clarke is up and leading her outside the tent before she has the chance.

“Was that really necessary?" 

“Probably not, but sometimes I just can’t help myself.”

It’s an honest answer, which seems to surprise Clarke. She smiles at him for the second time in less than an hour, and he thinks he should’ve disappeared into the desert sooner. “So what is it you wanted to talk about?”

“How did you get inside Mt. Weather?”

“We shut down their power, well, Raven and Wick did, I mean,” she says. “The door had an electronic locking mechanism. Once we shut that off, we were able to bomb it and get through, but it turned out not to matter. When Lexa left us, Octavia and I got in through the Reaper entrance instead. Bellamy let us in.”

“You shut down the power.” An image of solar panels, rows and rows of solar panels, flashes across his mind. “And then you bombed the door…”

“Is this going somewhere, or are you just curious?”

“So if we had enough people, there’s no reason we couldn’t duplicate the process, yes?”

“Why would we? We told you, Mt. Weather is—”

“I’m not talking about Mt. Weather, Clarke,” Murphy interjects. “I’m talking about the City of fucking Lights.” A grin is spreading across his lips that probably makes him look like a crazy person, which certainly isn't going to help his cause, but he can’t help it. He feels the gears turning. He feels the pieces locking into place. “Their door had an electronic—an electronic whatever you called it, too, I think. I could hear it unlock when they wanted us to come in. If we had enough people, we—”

“We could _what_? Invade? You want to invade the City of Lights?”

“Why not?” Murphy practically shouts, shooting up from his chair to pace across the tent. He is nothing but nervous energy now, and he needs to release it. “They have _technology_ , Clarke. Emori told me about it. They have everything we had on the Ark and more. We don’t need to live like Grounders, and we don’t need to let any more kids get thrown out the way we were. We can take it for ourselves. We can _conquer_ it.”

Clarke’s eyes are wide, but she doesn’t seem entirely put off by the idea, which is more than he expected. “We were acting in self-defense against the Grounders. We went to Mt. Weather for a rescue mission. We’re not invaders, Murphy.”

“Aren’t we, though?” he challenges. “We fell from the fucking sky, Clarke, and took this land as our own. We took it from people who have been here for years. And they killed Jaha! They fired the first shots!  _They_ started this.”

“We don’t even know who _they_ are.”

“Emori does! And her people, they know. Her brother and the others still in the Dead Zone. They would help us.”

“This is insane. You know that, right?”

“This is a plan, isn’t it?" he argues. "Tell me, what’s your plan, Clarke? What do we do now that no one is actively trying to end us? Become Grounders?”

Clarke bites at the corner of her lip and looks away from him again. “Lexa has invited me to the Grounder capital, Polis. She wants me to negotiate for the Sky Kru to join their alliance.” 

Murphy rolls his eyes. “Sky Kru? This isn’t who we are, Clarke. We have knowledge, thousands of years of knowledge. Do you want that all to die with our generation? Or do you want to move forward?”

“That knowledge led to a nuclear holocaust,” Clarke points out. “Maybe it’s not such a bad thing if it dies with us.”

The Princess has a point, he knows she does, but his brain is practically spinning with the possibilities that would come with the City of Lights. “Medicine, Clarke, innovation, television, communication, _progress_.” He’s babbling like a lunatic now, spouting out whatever random words come to mind, but he doesn’t care. “Don’t you want that for us? The things we read about?”

There is a part of her that wants it, he can tell by the way she’s looking at him with her mouth slightly open, with her eyes sparkling in the dim light of the tent. “Lexa wouldn’t like it.”

“Well, fuck Lexa. She betrayed us, didn’t she?”

A shadow passes over Clarke’s face, and he’s sure he must be missing part of the story. “I guess you’re not wrong there,” she concedes. "But we're finally safe, Murphy. I've finally found a way to keep us safe. And it doesn't involve another war."

“But for how long? How long until it all falls to shit again? Just think about it, all right?” he pleads with her. “I get you probably have, I don’t know, _moral objections_ or whatever. But they’re not good guys, Clarke, I promise you that. Just listen to Emori talk about them. Not to mention they shot Jaha in the fucking head.”

Clarke lets out a long sigh and presses her fingertips into her temples. “I’ve learned something since you’ve been gone, Murphy."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. There are no good guys.”

 

* * *

 

 

Murphy slips quietly into the small bed and wraps his arm around Emori’s middle, pulling her body up against his. “You awake?” he whispers in her ear.

Emori shifts slightly and then wraps her hand around his. “Now I am,” she chuckles. “How did your summoning go?”

“It went—I think it might have actually gone _well_. Better than expected, at least,” Murphy says into her neck, nuzzling his nose just behind her ear. 

“So we won’t be running back to the Dead Zone, then?”

“Well, I don’t know. We might be.”

He feels Emori’s body instantly go from relaxed to taut like a bow about to snap. She turns in his arms until their noses are touching. “Why would we go back, John?" 

“To take the City of Lights, Emori. To avenge you and your people and Jaha. You said they were dangerous, Emori, you said—”

Emori's hand moves up between them and claps over Murphy's mouth. “Did you ever wonder why we robbed you that day?”

She removes her hand and waits for his response. “What do you mean? I don’t know. For our supplies? Emori—" 

“For your _technology_ , John,” Emori corrects, an almost crazed look in her eyes. She reaches up again to thread her fingers tightly in his hair and pull his face even closer. “That’s what we were looking for. Technology. Our people have been trying to take back the City of Lights for years, but we never had what we needed. Are you telling me your people are willing to help? I didn't think... I never even dared to ask you. I never thought it could happen. There are secrets in that city, John. Secrets you couldn't even imagine.”

“Clarke is considering it, but I can’t promise anything. Not yet.”

“John,” Emori whispers, her lips hovering just above his. It isn’t long before they are pressed against them instead, soft and wet and even better than he imagined. It’s a short kiss, practically chaste, but John Murphy has never felt more alive. Even if Clarke says no, he thinks he'd be willing to siege the City of Lights all on his own just to feel like this again.

 

* * *

 

 

* * *

 

 

There’s a persistent, violent ache radiating from the back of his skull to just behind his eyes. It’s a throbbing pain, pulsing harder and harder each time he tries to move. It has left him nearly blind to what’s around him. All he can make out is white. Everything seems to be white.

“John?” he croaks. “John, are you there?”

There’s no answer, and he wants to cry. The boy has left him behind, or worse, something terrible has befallen him and the others. That thought makes his chest tighten until he’s sure it’s going to burst from the pressure. He is the one who brought them here with promises of sanctuary. If they are dead, the blood is on his hands. 

“John is gone, along with the others. I’ve already told you this." 

Terror seizes him. He doesn’t know this voice, has never heard it before. His fingers dig into the sheets beneath him. He tries to use his heels to kick away from the sound, but he’s too weak to get any traction.

“You need to wake up now, Thelonious. You've slept for too long." 

_How does she know my name? Who is she?_

“I told you, we have work to do.” 

He tries to open his eyes again, but it feels like his lids have been welded shut. It takes everything he has left to tear them open. The lights on the ceiling hit him hard, searing through his brain like a hot dagger. It’s still white, so white. But he sees something new this time as well.

He sees red.


	3. Old Wounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is absolutely nothing soft about John Murphy. Everything about him is as sharp as his tongue—the ribs that visibly jut out even through his shirt, the long, hooked nose, the wide-set, almost predatory eyes, the scars that slash and wind across his angular face, the frayed ends of his long, perpetually messy hair.

The muscles in his legs feel tight and hot like he’s just stopped running. No matter what position he twists himself in to, the feeling persists. The more he tries to relax, the more his legs jump and the louder the buzzing in his head grows. He wipes away the sweat pooling on his forehead and slams his fists down into the sheets. It has been months since he’s gotten more than a few hours’ sleep at a time, and it’s starting to drive him mad. Inside Mt. Weather, surrounded by enemies, he had been able to fall asleep within minutes wherever he rested his head. The quick naps he took inside cramped air vents were more restful than any night’s sleep he’s had at Camp Jaha so far.

With a grunt, he sits up and hangs his feet over the side of the bed. The sun isn’t up, it won’t be for a while yet, but he slips on his boots, throws on his jacket, and marches outside anyways. The camp is still, but the early morning is far from quiet. As he stretches his arms over his head, he listens to the sounds of insects chirping in the distance, of owls softly hooting, of leaves rustling in the wind. There’s another sound, too. One he doesn’t usually hear at this time.

As the footsteps draw closer, he moves his hand to hover over the blade tucked into his belt. _We are free of enemies now, we’re finally safe_ , Chancellor Griffin had assured them after the peace negotiations with the Grounders, but he knows better than to put too much trust in those words. It’s hard to believe they’ll ever be truly safe here.

“Bellamy, is that you? Why are you up?”

A head of blonde hair shines through the darkness in front of him. His first thought is that she should have worn a damn hood if she wanted to sneak around properly, but who would she even be hiding from now? _We’re finally safe. We’re finally safe._ It seems the more he repeats those words to himself, the less he believes them.

“Couldn’t sleep. You?”

Clarke stops on the other side of his tent. She would’ve stood closer once, would’ve slipped into the spot next to him, but he asked for distance, and she’s done nothing but respect that. Their fractured relationship bothers her. He can tell by the way her brow furrows and her lips purse whenever he is around. But she has never pushed him to forgive her. She’s never lost her patience with him and never pointed out how his stunt with Raven’s radio killed hundreds of their people, how his campaign against the wristbands could’ve killed her mother and everyone else on the Ark. What she doesn’t realize is it only serves to piss him off more. If she’d just shout at him, if she’d just tell him what a goddamned hypocrite he’s being, maybe he could finally let it go.

“Same.” She kicks at the dirt in front of her and stuffs her hands inside her pockets. The way she hunches forward at the waist, her head bent down and eyes fixed on her shoes, makes her look even younger than she really is. “I had a really, uh, bizarre conversation with Murphy yesterday.”

“Is there any other kind of conversation when it comes to him?”

Clarke laughs softly. “No, I suppose not. He always has to show up and complicate everything, doesn’t he?”

“It’s comforting to know at least some things never change, I guess,” Bellamy sighs. They both fall quiet for a while after that. He looks up at the stars, like he usually does at this time of night, but he can’t enjoy them with her standing so close. He used to feel so comfortable with her. They could have stood in silence like this for hours, but now her presence always leaves him on edge. From the cursory glances she keep shooting at him, he knows she has more to say but is waiting for a sign he’s actually willing to hear it first. He considers walking away from her and looking at the stars from a clearing in the woods instead, but his curiosity over what Murphy possibly could’ve said to get her riled up is too intriguing. “So what did Murphy have to say?”

She looks up to meet his eyes. It’s too dark to make out most of her features, but the shock of blue hits him hard. It’s really not fair how beautiful she is. “A lot,” she mumbles, kicking at the dirt again. “He wants to go back to the City of Lights.”

Bellamy swallows and does his best to conceal the quick burst of panic that seizes him. “He wants to leave? But he just got back!” he exclaims, more forcefully than intended. He can feel Clarke’s gaze intensify. He knows exactly what she’s thinking— _Why do you care?_ He’s glad she doesn’t ask though, because he’s not sure he knows the answer.

“He wants us to go with him.”

“What? That doesn’t make any sense,” Bellamy says. “He told me the place was a trap. He said they killed Jaha.”

“He also said they were bad people. His new friend was born there apparently, but they banished her for some kind of birth defect. They throw the defective children into the Dead Zone to die when they turn a certain age and—”

“Well, that sounds familiar,” Bellamy intones.

“ _Mm_ ,” Clarke hums in agreement. “Murphy was kind enough to point out the similarities to my mother.” Bellamy barks out a laugh. It’s too loud for this time of morning, prompting both him and Clarke to look around for any signs that he’s woken someone up. When they hear nothing, Clarke turns back to him with a wry smile on her lips. “She was less amused than you.”

“Sorry,” he offers, but the hint of laughter still in his voice undermines the apology.

“Don’t be,” Clarke says, shaking her head. “I love my mother, but,” she begins, pausing to take a deep breath, “But that doesn’t mean I agree with everything she’s done. It doesn’t mean she agrees with everything I’ve done either.”

“Does she know?”

“About TonDC?” Bellamy nods, and Clarke takes another deep breath. “Yeah, she knows. I pulled her out of the village, and—”

“You saved her? You saved her but couldn’t find the damn time to go back for Octavia?” Bellamy snaps, in a harsh whisper.

Clarke looks away from him and crosses her arms in front of her chest. “If I had done that, where would it have ended?” she challenges. “Whoever I told would’ve wanted to tell someone else until _everyone_ knew. I was trying to protect you, Bellamy.”

“I didn’t ask for that. You shouldn’t have put me above—”

“I wasn’t putting you above anyone!” Clarke cuts in, anger creeping into her voice. “I was trying to win a war and keep our people alive. Everything was riding on you. I had to make the smart choice. It was the only thing I could do.”

Bellamy doesn’t answer. The muscles in his legs begin to tense again. He’s tempted to stalk away and to ignore her when she inevitably calls out for him to come back, but he summons up the will to stay put. The delinquents still look to them for everything. They are bound together, him and Clarke, for better or worse, and he can’t keep running away.

“And now, because of _Murphy_ of all people, I have to make another choice.” He feels her move closer to him, until she could reach out to touch him if she wanted to. “He thinks we should invade the City of Lights,” she whispers. “He thinks we should conquer them and take their technology. And I need to know what you think, Bell. I need my friend back, because sometimes I’m afraid I have no fucking idea what I’m doing.”

He can hear the tears in her voice, but he’s still surprised when he turns to find them clinging to her lashes. Part of him wants to reach out and brush them away. He imagines how it might feel to wrap his arms around her, to push his cheek against the soft, pale curls falling over shoulders, to run his hand in a small circle on her back. “You know what you’re doing, Princess,” he says, as he takes a step back from her instead. “You don’t need me.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Bellamy,” she sniffs, wiping her sleeve across her nose. “I don’t want to do this alone, and my mother—my mother just doesn’t get it. No one gets it. She thinks this can be like the Ark again, that the Council can take control and that somehow we’ll find a way to make a society with nothing but mangled dropships and broken people. And your sister, she seems to think we can just integrate ourselves into the Grounders. That we can become them.”

“And what do _you_ think?”

“I think we need to find our own way. A new way.”

“At the City of Lights?”

“I don’t know. Maybe? They’re not good people, Bell,” Clarke insists. “If what Murphy says is true then they have this coming.”

Bellamy shrugs and says, “I suppose Murphy would know, huh?”

The sun is finally starting to rise. There’s just enough light for Bellamy to make out the way Clarke is chewing on the inside of her lip. “He seems different though, doesn’t he? I mean, he’s still a smartass who gets off on other people’s discomfort, but—I don’t know, I sort of trust him. I think he wants what’s best for us. Am I insane?”

“No,” he answers, without hesitation. “Murphy was different even before he left.”

Clarke nods slowly. “So what do you think? I know you hate me now, but—”

“I think you should go to the people with this,” he interrupts. “I think you should tell them everything you know and ask them what they want to do. If you want to find a new way, do something the Ark and the Grounders never did. Ask the people." 

“But what if they can’t see what’s at stake? What if they want to choose the easy way out?”

“You have to trust them, Clarke." 

Clarke nods again and runs a hand through her tangled curls. “That’s what my father would’ve said, I think.”

People are starting to wake now. He hears yawning and the rustling of tent flaps. The peace of the morning is gone, and reality is upon them again. He wishes he had a better answer for her, something brilliant that would solve all their problems, but it’s never that easy. Sometimes he wonders what would have happened if he had just hung back when the dropship first crashed to earth, if he had let Clarke or Murphy or even Wells emerge as leader. Maybe the knot in his stomach wouldn’t be there now, maybe he’d be able to get a full night’s sleep.

“Do what you think is right, Clarke. We all trust your judgment.” He fastens the opening of his tent and grabs his empty canteen from where it had been hanging. He starts to walk away but hears her sigh again. The sound halts him mid-step and forces him to turn back to her. “Clarke?”

She glances up with something that looks an awful lot like hope in her eyes. “Yeah?”

“I don’t hate you, okay? I’m not alright with what you did, but if you—I don’t know, if you need to do this again,” he says, motioning toward where they had been standing, “Then I’m here.” There are tears shimmering in her eyes. She opens her mouth to respond, but he takes off before she can. There’s still an ugly voice in the back of his head, constantly screaming out, reminding him that this is the woman who left his sister behind to die. It is best to leave it there, before he says something that brings them back down to where they have been for months. The choices that face them now are too important to let old wounds get in the way.

 

* * *

 

 

Everyone gathers at the center of camp a few hours later. They’re all speaking in hushed whispers, asking their neighbors if they know why they’ve been called here. Theories are buzzing all around him, but Bellamy doesn’t hear even one person question Clarke’s decision to summon them all here. They follow her orders without reluctance, without annoyance. _Don’t tell me you guys are still pretending it’s the mother and not the daughter who’s calling the shots around here._ Bellamy smiles a little. Perhaps Murphy is more observant than Bellamy gives him credit for.

“What’s going on?” Monty slides through the crowd to stand next to him. He pushes on to his toes and tries to look over the others. Bellamy follows his eyes and notices the way Monty seems to deflate when he sees Jasper on the outskirts of the gathering, alone, as is usual these days. He and Clarke aren’t the only ones who have been on the outs since returning from Mt. Weather.

“Clarke has something important she needs to say.”

“When doesn’t she?” Monty laughs, tearing his eyes away from Jasper. “Are the Grounders causing trouble again?”

Bellamy shakes his head. “No, it has nothing to do with the Grounders.”

“I guess that’s a relief.”

Someone pushes past Bellamy then, jabbing a hard, bony shoulder into his spine and knocking him roughly into Monty. “What the fu—?”

The expletive fades away when he sees the source of his pain. And, really, he should have known who it would be. “Monty,” Murphy drawls, nodding his head to him from the other side of Bellamy. “And _you_ ,” he adds with a smirk.

“You’re late,” Bellamy states.

“Is that right? Damn, forgot to the check my watch,” Murphy mocks, looking down at this bare wrist. “Those keen powers of observation must be why the Princess keeps you around, Blake.”

“ _You_ started this. You could’ve at least been on time,” Bellamy counters. “There’s this thing called respect and—”

“Alright, alright, calm down with the lectures,” Murphy groans, holding up his hands. “I was trying to convince Emori to come, okay? But she’s not one for crowds. Being locked up most of your life will do that you, I guess. I wonder if—”

_If he talks about Octavia, I’m going to punch him in the fucking face_ , Bellamy thinks, but Monty saves him from having to cause a scene.

“So you really are back then,” Monty interjects, eyes wide. “We thought—”

“I was good and dead, yeah, I know,” Murphy grumbles. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“I wasn’t going to say that,” Monty huffs, narrowing his eyes slightly. “You can be such an ass.”

“You’re a hard one to kill, Murph,” Bellamy laughs to ease the building tension. “You’ve certainly proved that. We know better than to assume you’re dead by now." 

“Well, it’s not everyone who lives through their own public hanging, I suppose.” He says it lightly, like it’s a joke, but Bellamy can detect the bitterness hiding underneath. “She hasn’t started yet? What is she waiting for? A dramatic entrance?”

“Clarke does this thing where she actually thinks about what she’s going to say before saying it,” Bellamy says slowly, like he’s speaking to a child. “You might want to give it a shot some time.”

“Sounds like a waste of time to me,” Murphy shoots back.

From the corner of his eye, Bellamy notices Monty grimace. “You two sound like my parents used to when they bickered.”

Murphy flinches like someone’s just slapped him. “Shut the fuck up, Green,” he spits, clearly catching Monty off guard.

“Jeez, it was just a joke, Murphy.”

“Well, you never were funny.”

Bellamy’s tempted to knock Murphy upside the head for that like he used to when he got out of line, but he gives Monty a look he hopes communicates _just ignore him_ instead. It’s obvious, at least to him, that Murphy is nervous. Despite the cool breeze, there’s a line of sweat gathering around where his tangled dreads start. His hands are hidden in his pockets, but Bellamy can see the way they can keep tightening into fists. There’s also the fact he can’t seem to keep his damned feet still.

“Would you stop?” Bellamy mutters, as Murphy shifts his weight between his feet again. “Everything’s going to be fine." 

“What are you even talking about?”

“I’m just telling you to relax.” Bellamy goes to put his hand on Murphy’s shoulder, but he flinches again, almost violently this time.

An odd sort of pain strikes in Bellamy’s gut. He’s found himself in a difficult position when it comes to Murphy lately. Whenever he tries to touch him, Murphy freaks out, but he’s finding it increasingly more difficult to keep his hands off him.

He’s not sure when or why this started, this desire to find out just how Murphy will feel under his hands. The most obvious reason would be attraction, but he doesn't know how that can be true. Bellamy has always liked women. He likes the way they smell, the noises they make when he presses his lips to theirs, the softness of their bodies. Even Raven Reyes, with her nerves of steel and harsh commands, had been all soft curves and flowing hair in his bed.

There is absolutely nothing soft about John Murphy. Everything about him is as sharp as his tongue—the ribs that visibly jut out even through his shirt, the long, hooked nose, the wide-set, almost predatory eyes, the scars that slash and wind across his angular face, the frayed ends of his long, perpetually messy hair. It’s left Bellamy confused, to say the least.

“Would you stop with the fucking staring?” Murphy says through clenched teeth. “I hate when people stare.”

Bellamy thinks Murphy would be a little more polite if he knew exactly _why_ Bellamy was staring. He has never been ignorant to the way Murphy reacts to him. Back when they first landed on earth, there had been moments the other boy would accidentally let his guard down when they were alone. His blue eyes would occasionally drop fleetingly to Bellamy’s lips when they spoke or his hands would linger just a little too long on his arm. It never bothered him, whatever kept his men loyal was fine with him, but now recalling those looks and prolonged touches tugs at something low in his gut.

“Thank you all for coming here today.” Clarke’s voice shoots through the crowd like a gunshot, and nearly everyone falls silent at once. Chancellor Griffin is standing behind her daughter, with arms crossed and mouth tight. _Well, I guess I know where she stands on this._ “I know it has only been a few months since our war with Mt. Weather, but we now find ourselves with another difficult choice to make. This time, we will all decide together.”

Clarke goes on to outline everything Murphy must have told her during their meeting. Her voice is composed and clear despite the anxiety he’s sure she must be feeling. That’s the true mark of leadership, he thinks, the ability to put aside personal feelings to do what is needed. He wants to hate her, he really does, but it is challenging to reconcile those emotions with the awe he feels now.

“She’s not emphasizing it enough,” Murphy mumbles, snapping Bellamy out of his trance. “She’s—she’s fucking it up.”

“What are you blabbering about?”

“She should point out how alike it all is, shouldn’t she?” Murphy answers. “How them throwing kids into the Dead Zone—”

“They get it without her explicitly saying it, Murph,” Bellamy assures him. “She’s on your side in this. But she wants them to feel horror at what’s being done, not shitty about the fact that they themselves used to let it happen all the time.”

Murphy’s jaw clenches. He glimpses at Bellamy quickly and then looks down at his own hands. “I suppose this is why I’m not in charge, huh? I’m such a fucking idiot.”

It’s still hard for Bellamy to believe that such a cocky, incorrigible asshole can be so damned insecure. “Just take a deep breath or something, would you? We’ll get you some of Monty’s moonshine after this is over.”

Murphy lifts his arms to run his hands through his hair. They obscure his face but not before Bellamy catches sight of the smile that’s now there. It’s a rare sight, and Bellamy finds himself surprised by just how endearing a smile it is. It makes him feel warm, and the urge to touch Murphy again comes over him. He satisfies it by moving just a little to his right, just enough so his arm is brushing up against Murphy’s. He flinches, as Bellamy expected he would, but he doesn’t back away. _Small victories_ , Bellamy thinks, with a grin.

“Take your time and consider all that I’ve said,” Clarke suddenly announces, and Bellamy feels a little guilty about having been preoccupied for the end of her speech. “Tonight we’ll take a vote and do whatever you decide.”

A renewed, more urgent cacophony of whispers breaks out when Clarke and Chancellor Griffin disappear back into the ship. Everyone starts looking around them, craning their necks and pushing up on to their toes. They’re all looking for something. Bellamy isn’t quite sure what it is until he feels Murphy stir next to him.

“Fucking hell, why did I come back here?”

All of their eyes are landing on Murphy, taking stock of the young boy who brought this story of the City of Lights to them. For someone who despises being stared at, Bellamy is surprised Murphy has managed to hold back from completing losing his shit, but there’s only so long that can last. Before Murphy can fuck up his own plan by punching someone, Bellamy slings an arm around his shoulders and pulls him away from the gathering. To his surprise, Murphy doesn’t fight him, doesn’t even flinch, not until they reach the woods at least.

Once they’re safely concealed behind the trees, Murphy aggressively shrugs Bellamy away and hisses something under his breath.

“What did you say?”

“Stop fucking looking at me like that,” Murphy snaps. “Why do you always have to look at me like that?”

“Like what exactly?”

“Like I’m a bomb waiting to go off,” Murphy answers. “I wasn’t going to hit anyone, all right? You didn’t have to play hero and pull me out of there.”

“I just thought it might bring up some—some not-so-pleasant memories for you." 

One of Murphy’s eyebrows shoots up. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know,” Bellamy lies. He wishes he hadn’t said anything, because this is the last memory he wants to bring up right now. “Everyone staring, the crowd. I just thought it might—”

“Ah, the lynch mob, of course,” Murphy laughs sullenly. “When you kicked the crate out from under my legs and tried to kill me. How considerate of you, Blake.”

“I was only trying to help.”

Murphy looks at him from under hooded eyelids. He blinks slowly, long eyelashes falling across searing blue eyes. Bellamy finds himself wondering how those eyes would look staring up at him in the dark, how those eyelashes might flutter if Bellamy kissed one of the jagged scars running across his face.

“Why do you care what happens to me? You never used to.”

“I feel like I let you down that day,” Bellamy admits. “When we hanged you. I should have stopped the others. I was too busy trying to prove a point to Clarke and—”

“I tried to hang you, too, Bellamy. You hardly owe me an apology,” Murphy laughs. “This is just all so fucking weird. I was a different person in the desert. When I talked with Emori, everything was what it was, you know? No loaded questions, no shitty memories behind every fucking word. And now I’m back here, and you’re looking at me like _that_ , and I feel like it’s only a matter of time before I ruin everything again.”

Bellamy pushes his hands into his pockets to keep from reaching out to Murphy like he wants to. If it were Clarke or Octavia or Monty or really anyone else falling apart in front of him like this, he would’ve wrapped an arm around him or her and promised everything would be okay. But Murphy needs to be handled differently. “You’re not the only one who’s changed since you left,” he says. “It’s not too late to start over. And you can still be you without being _you_.”

Murphy snorts. “I hate that I know what you mean by that.”

“Like I said, just trying to help.”

“Yeah.” Murphy takes a long drag of his canteen, and Bellamy catches himself watching the way a stray drop of water runs down his long neck. When he’s finished, Murphy points to camp. “I should be getting back. Emori will want to know what happened.”

“Sure,” Bellamy says. A flare of jealousy sparks in his chest at the mention of Emori. It makes him feel painfully ridiculous. “If you need anything—”

“Yeah, I know, I get it. If you start giving me an inspirational pep talk, I might have to shoot myself.”

“Well, then I’ll do my best to resist.”

 

* * *

 

 

There are roaring debates that night. Impassioned speeches are made from all sides. Predictably, a lot of the Arkers want to stay in this makeshift home they’ve created for themselves. Bellamy doesn’t blame them for being wary of leaving the only place they’ve experienced even a modicum of safety since they landed for an uncertain trek across the desert. He’s not sure he’s wholly sold on the idea either.

It also doesn’t surprise him when Octavia stands and demands the crowd’s attention to advocate for joining the Grounder alliance. She has worked hard to try to earn her way back in with the Grounders after defying Lexa’s order to leave Mt. Weather. The twisted braids in her hair and dark circles painted around her eyes fill him with dread. He worries a breaking point is coming for them. He understands her desire to integrate with the Grounders, but he’s not sure what she wants is possible. They have inflicted so many wounds upon each other—the spear in Jasper's gut, Murphy’s torture, the bleeding disease, Lincoln’s torture, Finn’s massacre, the bomb, the rocket fuel. Even if they all were to heal, the scars will still remain and trust will be an uphill battle. Bellamy fears there’s no place for him amongst the Grounders. The few times he’s heard Lexa say his name, she’s used it like a curse. It’s not clear to him what he’s done to earn such ire— _maybe someone told her about Lincoln’s torture at his hands?_ —but he’s sure his assimilation would not go as well as his sister’s.

There are more people than he expected who seem perfectly willing to leave behind what they have created for the promise of more. _Progress._ That is the word they keep using. _Progress. Innovation. Future._ They are inspiring words, to be sure. The thought of reclaiming the things they used to read about in school makes him feel like he might have a purpose beyond survival for the first time in a long time. But it is hard to match the passion of the others when there’s a nagging voice in the back of his mind reminding him that the notion of _progress_ is most likely what caused this all in the first place.

As the others persuade and argue and shout, Bellamy’s eyes wander across the crowd until he spots Murphy and Emori at the very edge, as far away as possible while still being able to hear. Murphy’s arm is wrapped around her small waist. Every time she winces or moves at all, Murphy leans down to whisper something in her ear, like he knows exactly what she needs to hear. The envy builds inside of him again. There’s an easy rapport between them that he could never hope to have with Murphy after what they’ve been through, that he could never even hope to have even with Clarke now. Logically, he knows it’s good for Murphy to have someone he’s comfortable with and who will be able to hold him back from falling into old habits, but he can’t help but want something like that for himself.

Ultimately, a decision isn’t made that night. The arguments are too loud and frenzied to get a good sense of what option has come out on top, so Clarke announces that they will take the night to consider all they’ve heard and vote tomorrow morning.

Bellamy knows another night of sporadic, fitful sleep awaits him. There are so many competing thoughts bouncing off his skull that it feels like his brain is sprinting. The thought of even trying to lay down on his bed fills him with anxiety, so he heads toward Monty’s tent instead.

Miller is inside when he arrives. The two are sitting on the floor and leaning close to each other, and he almost feels bad about interrupting. “Hey, Monty, I—”

The two spring apart, and Monty smiles a little too wide. “Bellamy!” he exclaims. “What can I do for you?”

“Do you have any of that moonshine left over? I’ve had trouble sleeping—”

“Say no more, my friend!” Monty says, hopping up from the floor. “I always have a secret stash for my fellow delinquents.” He rummages through a crate by the end of his bed, pulls out a small canteen, and offers it to Bellamy.

“You wouldn’t happen to have two of those by any chance?”

“Expecting company?” Miller laughs, raising his eyebrows. Bellamy almost points out that he’s not one to talk, but he doesn’t want to embarrass Monty.

“There’s just someone else I think could use a drink.”

“Sure thing,” Monty says, quickly pulling out an identical canteen. “This is only for one of the hundred though." 

“Of course,” Bellamy says. “Wouldn’t dream of sharing with anyone else.”

Bellamy knows he probably won’t be welcome and that he’ll probably want to be alone with Emori, but his feet carry him to Murphy’s tent anyways. It’s both a relief and a surprise to find him there alone, lying back on his bed with his knees held to his chest.

“Is that actually comfortable?"

Murphy jumps up and flails his arms out like he’s just heard a gunshot. “Fucking hell, Bellamy,” he gasps. “Do you ever fucking knock?”

“How am I supposed to knock on a tent? It’s not my fault you spook easily.”

“I don’t spook easily, you just don’t make any fucking noise when you walk. And I don’t know,” Murphy grumbles. “You could at least, like, announce your presence or something. What do you want?” 

“I promised you a drink,” Bellamy says, holding up the canteen. “Consider it a peace offering.” Murphy flinches, and Bellamy wants to scream. _Why is everything I do with this asshole wrong?_ “What’s the problem now?”

“Uh, nothing,” Murphy says, after a pause. “I just—it’s nothing, I’ll take it. Thanks.” He grabs proffered container but doesn’t immediately take a swig from it like Bellamy expects him to. There’s something peculiar about his expression, like there’s an argument going on inside his head that Bellamy isn’t privy to.

“What aren’t you saying?” Bellamy sighs. “I’m getting really sick of not having the whole story when it comes to you.”

Murphy pops open the top and takes a long drink. The belch he releases afterward makes Bellamy laugh in spite of his exasperation. “My mother was an alcoholic,” he says casually, like they’re talking about the weather. “Found her dead in her own vomit when I was a kid. I suppose I’ve earned a drink after everything though, huh?”

“Murphy—”

“That wasn’t an invitation for a heart-to-heart,” Murphy warns, before taking another drink. “Just trying the honesty thing out.”

Bellamy takes a long drink of his own moonshine and relishes the way it burns his throat. He hopes a few more swigs will be enough to drown out everything else. “Is that why you’re such an asshole then?" 

“What? My mother?” Murphy scoots to the top of his bed and rests his back against the tent wall. Bellamy takes that as permission to take a seat on the opposite side. “I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t do a whole lot of self-reflecting. Is _your_ mother why _you’re_ such an asshole?”

“Could be.” Bellamy keeps drinking and hopes this conversation takes a turn for anywhere else soon. Combining alcohol and their mothers’ deaths doesn’t seem like a recipe for a civil conversation. “How’s Emori doing?”

“Wanted to be alone.” Murphy hiccups, and it’s obnoxious how cute it sounds. “She’s nervous about everything, understandably.”

“And you?”

“I’ve got less riding on it than her,” he says. “I've made peace with the people who left me for dead. It’d be nice to feel useful for once though.” He hiccups again, and Bellamy’s stomach flips. “Can we talk about literally anything else? I mean, anything but this and my dead, alcoholic mother.”

They mutually shift the conversation to less loaded topics. They laugh about the old days at the dropship, about what jerks they had both been and how uptight Clarke seemed to them then. They talk about their lives on the Ark, about how after a successful crime spree, Murphy had finally gotten arrested because he tripped over his own feet while stealing extra rations. It feels good to laugh. The moonshine is making him feel warm and happy and relaxed, so relaxed it takes him a while to notice that he and Murphy have drifted extremely close to one another. They’re sitting next to each other now, they’re legs touching whenever one of them laughs.

Bellamy’s so close to him that he can feel the heat radiating from Murphy and see the pale smattering of freckles the desert sun left on the bridge of his nose. The freckles are cute. The drunken laughter that rings out when Bellamy pokes him in the ribs is cute. Suddenly and absurdly, everything about Murphy is starting to seem _cute_.

It’s immediately after Murphy makes another ill-advised crack about Octavia being half-Grounder that Bellamy does something completely insane. To his alcohol-addled brain, he had just wanted Murphy to shut up before he said something that would ruin their fun. There were a thousand other ways he could’ve accomplished this, of course, but _kissing him_ just made so much fucking sense at the time.

The second his lips press against Murphy’s, he regrets it. He’s crashing into the personal space of a boy who flinches when Bellamy even tries to touch his shoulder. He should back up, but he finds himself frozen, unable to pull away or push forward. All he can do is wait for Murphy’s fist to smash across his face like it had when Bellamy tried to button his fly.

After several excruciating seconds of nothing, Bellamy finally feels a warm, callused hand rest against the edge of his jaw. And then Murphy’s lips are moving against his, cautiously at first, but more urgently when Bellamy finally overcomes his shock enough to return the gesture.

Whenever he imagined this, because he’d be a fucking liar if he claimed he hadn’t imagined this, the kiss always played out like a fight. He expects the clash of teeth and nails and bruising touches. Instead, Murphy is pliant beneath him, letting Bellamy lead and press him down into the mattress as his tongue presses deeper into Murphy’s mouth.

It all feels so inexplicably good. John Murphy is nothing but sharp angles. It feels as though if Bellamy presses too close he might cut himself, but he likes the danger. He wants to run his hand over every point and jagged edge, wants to memorize the ridges and smooth them out until Murphy is soft and trembling under him.

It quickly goes to his head—the kissing, their bodies entwined together, the alcohol coursing through his veins. His hips jerk forward, pressing his erection into Murphy’s. He should know better, he should slow down, but there’s a nearly unbearable pressure building inside of him. He thinks it might be the moan he releases into Murphy’s lips that finally does the other boy in.

“Get off me,” Murphy breathes, pushing the palms of his hands against Bellamy’s chest. It’s not nearly enough force to really push him away, but Bellamy complies and sits back on the other side of the bed where he started. Free of Bellamy’s weight, Murphy flees from the bed and stands as far away as possible without actually leaving. His lips are bright red and his cheeks are flushed with color, which isn’t helping Bellamy suppress his desperation to kiss him again. “I don’t—How?—What even—?” Murphy stumbles over his words, still out breath. “ _Why_?”

“Because I wanted to,” Bellamy says. “Whatever the hell we want, remember?”

“But—you—you like _girls_. I mean, I thought—I thought your interests were—I don’t know.” Murphy trails off, and Bellamy can’t help but smile.

“Maybe it’s your long, luscious locks.”

Murphy rolls his eyes. “Shut the fuck up. This isn’t a joke.”

“What’s the big deal? So I like both, you of all people shouldn’t be surprised.” 

“But since when?” Murphy says in a strangled sort of whine. It looks like the conversation is causing him physical pain. “All those girls you paraded through your tent. You never—you never—”

“Maybe you’re just the first guy to capture my attention.”

“Oh, fucking hell, now you’re just mocking me,” Murphy groans, covering his face with his hands. “This isn’t cool, Bellamy. I’m too fucking drunk for this.”

“I’m not mocking you, Murphy. I’ve been thinking about this—”

“Stop. I’m going to throw up.”

“You seemed okay with it a second ago.”

“Just fucking kill me,” Murphy slurs, as he slides down the wall of the tent until he’s a crumpled mess on the floor. “This was all I wanted once, you know,” he says to the floor. There are tears brimming in his wide eyes that make Bellamy feel sick. “Everything I did, I did to get your damn attention. Just hearing you say my name was fucking—I just—you’re all I thought about. And then you turned on me with the rest of them. You made it clear I was _nothing_. Emori is the first person who’s made me feel like there might actually be something redeemable about me, and now you’ve got to come bursting in here and kissing me and what the actual fuck, Bellamy?”

Bellamy hadn’t thought about it beyond lips and hands and heat, and now he has no idea what to do. It feels like he’s walked into a minefield, and there’s no move he can make without setting something off. “I’m sorry,” he finally manages. “This isn’t—I didn’t think this would happen.” Murphy pulls his knees into his chest and hides his face behind them. He doesn’t make a sound, and Bellamy gets the sinking feeling he might be crying. “Do you want me to leave?”

The question is met with a long sigh. Murphy eventually lifts his head and, to Bellamy’s relief, there are no tears. “No. You can stay. If you want. Whatever.”

“Do you _want_ me to stay?”

“I said whatever!” Murphy half-shouts. “If you want to, I guess. I’m shit at sleeping alone now.”

“I’m shit at sleeping at all.”

“You’re shit at kissing, too.”

“Now that’s a fucking lie.”

Murphy laughs out loud, and a small smirk twists on to his lips. “Yeah, that _is_ a fucking lie,” he sighs, before hopping up from the floor as quickly as he had shot off the bed. “Fine. You keep your head on that side though, Blake,” he commands. “And don’t try anything funny.”

“You want my feet by your face?" 

“You’re more than welcome to take the floor instead.” Murphy tosses the one pillow he has to Bellamy, throws back the covers, and then slips under them, turning toward the tent wall so Bellamy can’t see his face. He balls up the sweatshirt he had been wearing and rests his head on it. “If you start snoring, I’m kicking you out.”

Bellamy slips under the blankets as well, careful to keep his feet near the edge. The linens they gave him are threadbare at best, and he makes a mental note to secure Murphy some better ones tomorrow to make up for all of this. “Well, if you start kicking, I’m kicking back.”

“Whatever. Just go to sleep, would you?”

“I’ll do my best, boss,” Bellamy replies. Murphy doesn’t say anything, but Bellamy’s sure he hears a quiet laugh from the other side of the bed. It’s not particularly comfortable. They’re really too large to be sharing this small of a bed, but Bellamy finds himself comforted by the heat and the sound of Murphy’s steady breathing.

It’s the first time in months he sleeps through morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	4. The Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People like them don’t have the luxury of makings plans.

_Fucking sand._

The wind is screaming. Sand is swirling around him, burying his feet and lodging itself in the too-thin fabric of his clothes. The swath of cloth he wears around his head and neck for such occasions is keeping the sand from filling his lungs and destroying his eyes, but he’s not sure how much longer he can stand sitting here without knowing how the others are faring.

It feels strange to be worrying about others instead of just himself. The way his mind keeps jumping back to when he told Bellamy about the sandstorms, the way he keeps obsessing over if he had told the other boy everything he needed to know, would be terribly embarrassing if anyone else could hear his thoughts. Murphy knows he’ll be fine though. He is a survivor, after all, and back when he was one of Jaha’s acolytes, he learned the hard way how to survive sandstorms. They are quick and deadly. They are loud and terrifying. And if you panic, you die. He hasn’t heard anyone move yet, but it’s not like he would if they did.

_“Don’t even fucking try to move,”_ he remembers telling the others before they crossed in to the Dead Zone. _“Cover your face, especially your eyes and mouth. Dampen the fabric with your canteen if you have time. Run to high ground, sit, keep your head down, and whatever you do, don’t fucking move until it’s over.”_ Bellamy and Clarke had stood behind him during the entire speech, nodding their heads, as if he were simply a pawn just reciting what they wanted him to say. By agreeing to this mission, they were also agreeing to follow him, but to absolutely no one’s surprise, letting go of power is easier said than done.

_Don’t even fucking try to move._ The instructions were easy and clear, in his opinion anyways. But there is almost always someone who manages to fuck it up. He recalls searching for a young girl, Mary maybe, after a particularly brutal storm on their way back to Camp Jaha. They had searched for hours only to be rewarded with the sight of her broken body buried in the sand. The thought of finding one of their party like that, even Raven fucking Reyes, makes him feel nauseous. _Fucking sand._

After what feels like days but is probably only minutes, the wind finally starts to die down and the sand settles. There’s an obnoxious ringing his ears and his mouth feels so dry he can barely breathe, but he’s alive and that’s all that matters. Unwrapping his hood, he fumbles for his canteen and takes the most glorious gulp of water he’s ever had in his life.

“Everyone drink!” A hoarse voice calls out from somewhere behind him. “Stand up slowly, and make sure to get water. If anyone’s hurt, call out!”

Murphy brushes some of the sand from his jacket and shakily stands up. It doesn’t surprise him at all to turn and find Bellamy and the Princess weaving through the huddled mass of people gathered on the hill, lifting their faces to check for signs of damage and offering sweet, pretty words of encouragement. It irks him. They don’t know what to look for, not really. It’s he and Emori who understand the desert best, but those two can’t seem to help but lead, even when they’re completely out of their depth.

“Did you do a headcount?” Murphy croaks, stumbling over to the rest of the group.

Bellamy’s head snaps up. “What?”

“A headcount,” Murphy repeats. He glances around the hill and begins to tally everyone up in his head. _Eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen…_ “There’s only thirteen of us,” he sighs. “Someone tried to run.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m telling you we lost someone.”

“That’s impossible,” Clarke says. “The instructions were very—”

“Everyone stand up and show your faces,” Bellamy roars, cutting Clarke off, and the others all dutifully comply. Raven is the closest to them, looking more pissed off than scared. Wick is behind her, hovering like he’s her bodyguard as usual. Clarke is checking a shaken Monty’s vitals while Jasper watches on wringing his hands like a concerned mother. “Miller, Harper, Monroe, Kane, Indra, Lincoln, Octavia,” Bellamy says everyone’s name one by one until he and Murphy simultaneously realize who it is they’re missing.

“EMORI!” Her name comes out as a scream, anguished and guttural. _It isn’t possible. She knows better than this._ “Emori, where the fuck did you go?” Bellamy reaches for him, but he avoids the other boy’s hands and takes off sprinting down the hill.

“Murphy, wait!”

In his panic, he can’t even tell if it’s Bellamy or someone else calling out to him, and he doesn’t care. His heart is beating so fast, he’s amazed he hasn’t passed out yet. The sand is deep, and he trips more than once, as he runs and screams out her name over and over again.

“John, stop that, I’m fine!” The voice calls out from somewhere to his left. He turns to find Emori practically sprinting toward him with more grace than he could ever hope to manage in this terrain. Not far behind her two men he doesn’t recognize follow. When she finally reaches him, she grins softly and rests her palm on his cheek. “Did you really think a little sandstorm could take me down?”

Murphy grasps the outside of her hand and leans into her touch, knowing the others are far enough away that they won’t see. “You weren’t there,” he rasps, trying not to sound as panicked as he still feels. “How was I supposed to know?”

Emori’s smile fades into a frown. “I’m sorry, John, I didn’t mean to worry you,” she says. “I heard my brother’s warning call in the distance when the storm started, and I needed to find him before it pushed us too far away from each other. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen him, and I think he can help us.”

Just as she finishes explaining, the two men get close enough that Murphy can make out their features, those that aren’t covered by their hoods at least. Technically, he’s met her brother before, sort of. He was there quietly watching on when Emori held a knife to his throat and punched him in the face and stole everything but the clothes on his back.

“This is Nat, my brother,” she says, pointing to the shorter of the two. Murphy would have known they were related without being told, they have the same bright brown eyes. “And this our friend Columbia.” The other boy is taller than all of them, and skinnier too. He’s also paler than most of the people Murphy has seen in the desert, with constantly moving gray eyes.

“Pleasure to meet you both. Isn’t the weather swell?” Murphy drones, still annoyed with Emori for disappearing on him without a word. Neither of them speak, just stare at him with blank expressions. “Fabulous,” Murphy continues, uncomfortable with the silence. “Let’s get back to the group then, yeah? I’m sure they’re terribly worried about me.” The two men tense at the suggestion and remain completely still even as he starts moving forward. When the tall one rests his hand on the gun hanging from his belt, Murphy takes a long step back from them and looks to Emori again. “Did you tell them about the group? Or do they think I’m trying to kidnap them?”

“Stop that,” Emori hisses at Columbia. “John is my friend, and his friends are now our allies.”

“There was a bounty on the Sky People,” Nat growls from behind his scarf. “We were told they were not to be trusted.”

It’s not the most encouraging start to an alliance, but he is relieved one of them finally spoke actual words. “Yeah, the Grounders,” Murphy says, waving his hand back toward where the group is now watching them from atop a sandy hill. “All has been forgiven, or so I’m told. We’ve got a few of them with us if you don’t believe me.”

They both look up at Murphy’s little band of misfits, and he’s glad for once that Octavia and Lincoln insist on always looking so ridiculous with the Grounder warpaint streaked all over their faces. “See? They’re our allies,” Murphy goes on. “We’re all in this together against the City of Light.” They both look back and glare at him. It surprises him not at all that he isn’t proving to be the best negotiator. _Where’s the fucking Princess when you actually need her?_

“They’re going to help us get our revenge,” Emori says, grabbing her brother’s arm. She pulls at him until he finally looks her in the eyes. “They have technology, more than we have after all these years of gathering. We need them.”

There’s a lot of hushed and angry-sounding whispering between the three of them after that. Murphy watches on, hearing one word from every sentence at most and awkwardly agonizing over whether he should give them privacy or if leaving would be perceived as an insult. He lets out a breath he hadn’t even realized he had been holding when Emori finally moves toward him and announces that they will be joining them for the invasion. Though Nat and Columbia don’t look particularly thrilled about this decision, Murphy isn’t about to argue with her.

“They don’t trust us then?” Murphy asks, as they begin walking back to the others.

Emori arches an eyebrow as if he had just asked her the dumbest question in the world. “They don’t trust anyone.”

“Ah,” Murphy says, nodding. “Well, then they’ll fit in perfectly here.”

 

* * *

 

 

Their little fire is crackling loudly. In the deep cold of the desert night, the orange flames look particularly inviting, but Murphy wanders off to the outskirts of the group like usual anyways. He pulls his hands in under his sleeves and wraps his arms around his legs. Resting his chin on his knees, he looks up at the sky above him. In the darkness, the stars shine impossibly bright, and as stupid as it might be to give a shit about stars, he finds himself mesmerized by them.

“Looking for the Ark?”

Murphy snorts, as Bellamy slips into the space next to him, a little too close for Murphy’s comfort. “Just enjoying the fact it’s no longer there, well, not most of it anyways, fucking all of this up,” he says, motioning a hand to the stars. “I’m glad it’s in pieces.”

“A lot of people died in that crash, you know.”

“A lot of people died when they threw us down to earth, too. It’s the risk you take for a real air supply, I guess." 

“Yeah, I guess,” Bellamy sighs.

“Oh, don’t pretend like you give a shit about any of them,” Murphy snaps, infuriated by the almost mournful look that has spread across Bellamy's face. “You were ready to let them all suffocate up there so you wouldn’t have to deal with the fact that you shot the fucking Chancellor. What was it, like three hundred people, who died because of you?”

Bellamy’s face drops, and Murphy immediately notices the way his fists clench at his side. _Shit, he’s going to hit me now._ “Do we really need to start listing each other’s sins?” Bellamy hisses. “It might take all night.”

Despite the dark subject matter, Murphy laughs. “Might take longer than that, honestly.”

“I wasn’t trying to suggest you—I wasn’t trying to needle you or anything. I was just talking.”

“You were _implying_ I was glad the people left on the Ark died,” Murphy counters, clenching his knees closer to him. “If you remember, _I_ was the one who wanted to save that stranded Ark girl when the Princess’ precious Finn wanted to leave her to die.”

“I wasn’t trying to _imply_ anything,” Bellamy grumbles. “You’re really fucking defensive, you know that?”

“I wonder why that is,” Murphy mocks. “What do you want?”

“I envisioned this conversation going in a very different direction,” Bellamy admits. “But I should’ve figured out by now that nothing can ever be easy with you. I came over because we—we still haven’t talked about what happened that night and—”

“We don’t need to have this talk, really,” Murphy interjects before Bellamy can say anything else. For the second time in the span of only a few hours, panic seizes him. The last thing he wants is to get the _I’m sorry, it was a mistake, can we still be friends?_ speech from Bellamy Blake, the boy whose long eyelashes have haunted his mind since they landed on earth. At least leaving it unspoken would allow him to maintain some of his dignity.

“And what talk would that be?”

“I know who you are, I know who I am, and I know you were drunk, alright? I’m a big boy, I don’t need anything spelled out for me.” When Bellamy doesn’t say anything right away, Murphy feels like he might jump out of his skin. “Plus, I have Emori,” he adds without thinking. “She wants to be with me, even when she’s sober.”

Bellamy lets out a long-suffering sigh that makes Murphy want to punch him between the eyes. It occurs to him then it might not be healthy to have such constant, violent thoughts about someone he fantasizes about making out with nearly every night. “You are almost never right about anything ever, you know that?”

Murphy tentatively turns and meets Bellamy’s eyes, which he instantly realizes is a terrible fucking mistake because fucking hell, how can brown eyes be that beautiful? The stars are reflecting back in them and his eyelashes are fluttering and Murphy feels his insides collapsing.

“I’ve been thinking about it. About what happened.”

“Okay,” Murphy says slowly. “And have you come to the conclusion that I’m some sort of secret sex god? Because that’s what I was going for with the drunken rambling and almost crying.”

Bellamy chuckles. “That’s actually not too far off.”

Murphy feels his face heat up, and he thanks whatever gods or magical beings or mysterious City of Light overlords that may or may not exist that they’re sitting in the darkness and Bellamy can’t see him blushing. “Don’t fuck with me, Blake,” he says, an obnoxiously weak tone creeping into his voice. “Not about this.”

“I am not fucking with you.” Bellamy sighs again, which only serves to agitate him more. “Why would I fuck with you? We’re okay. What happened has happened, and now we’re okay, alright? We’re more than okay.”

“And what does more than okay entail?" 

“I don’t know,” Bellamy says, shrugging. “Maybe finding out if you really are a secret sex god." 

And there his insides go again, collapsing and fluttering and tying themselves into intricate, painful knots that make him worry he’s about to vomit at Bellamy fucking Blake’s feet. “It’s really hard for me to believe that you’re not fucking with me right now.”

“Did it feel like I was fucking with you when I shoved my dick against yours? Or did it feel like I wanted to fuck you?”

His cock jumps at just the memory of that night, of Bellamy leaning over him, smelling so good and feeling so good. He hates himself a little for pushing him away before things could go further. At the time, it had made sense. Why would he torture himself by having what he’s always wanted, only to never have it again? Why would he risk his relationship with the only person of the remaining one hundred that didn’t seem physically pained to be around him? But now he was thinking it might have all been worth it just to have that one night.

“I thought—I thought it was just a drunk thing.”

“Well, I’m not drunk right now, and if I thought we could get away with it—”

“Don’t,” Murphy groans, burying his head against his knees. “Are you trying to kill me?”

“I’m _trying_ to flirt with you, but you are making it very difficult.”

“Maybe you’re just not very good at it.”

“Years of experience have suggested otherwise,” Bellamy teases, knocking his shoulder against Murphy’s. “You know, you really impressed me today, with the others. You really know this place.”

“Thanks, dad.”

“Can you let me give you one fucking compliment without being an asshole?”

“Probably not.”

“Some people would call that a defense mechanism.”

“Some people would call it just being an asshole.”

“John Murphy, secret sex god and hopeless asshole,” Bellamy laughs, knocking his shoulder into Murphy’s again. It seems that at some point, Bellamy has managed to inch closer to him, so that the sides of their bodies are now completely pressed up against each other. It’s hard to believe the boy he once tried to hang is sitting with him like this. It’s even harder to believe when he leans over and presses a soft kiss to Murphy’s cheekbone.

“Holy shit,” Murphy mutters, trying to ignore the way his entire body shudders at the contact. “What if the others see you doing that?”

“So what?”

“Won’t the Princess be mad? I don’t want her trying to kill me to defend your honor or something.”

Bellamy responds by draping his arm around Murphy’s shoulder, as if it’s completely natural for them to be together like this, as if this isn’t the strangest and most wonderful thing that’s ever fucking happened to him. “It’s no one else’s business.” With that, Bellamy gently grasps the far side of Murphy’s face and turns him until their lips are pressed together. It’s warm and wet and everything he remembered it being that first night and more.

“John?" 

Murphy breaks away abruptly at the sound of his name, the name only two people—well, one now that Jaha’s dead—use. “Shit,” he mumbles, shooting up to his feet and glancing around to see if she had seen them.

“Are you in love with her?" 

Murphy laughs out loud at the question. “What?”

“It’s not that weird of a thing to ask, is it? You trekked across the desert together, and don’t even tell me you didn’t think up this entire idea as a way to help her get revenge on those people. I already know you care about her. I’m asking if you love her.”

The expression on Bellamy’s face is unreadable to him, no matter how desperately he tries to squint through the darkness. Murphy can’t tell if he’s jealous or just curious, and he’s honestly not sure which he would prefer. “I don’t think so,” he finally says. “I don’t know. How would I even know?”

Bellamy fixes him with a look he hates more than anything—pity, goddamn pity. He knows exactly what he’s thinking. _Poor, emotionally stunted John Murphy_. “Maybe I do,” he spits out, harsher than he really means to. “Maybe I do love her.”

Bellamy nods slowly, and to Murphy’s endless annoyance, he still has no idea what he’s thinking. “Okay.”

“Okay?" 

“I’m not sure what to say.”

“John?” Her voice calls out again. Murphy knows he should stay here, that he should work out his feelings for Bellamy and if they’re by some miracle actually returned right now, because it’s entirely possible they might never have another moment like this again. But Emori’s voice is offering him an easy out, and he already feels too vulnerable by half.

“I better go to her,” he says, looking down at his feet. “She might be worried.”

“Yeah, okay, no problem.”

Murphy wishes Bellamy would say something else, wishes he would jump up, grab Murphy by the shoulders, and kiss him or fuck his brains out or something. But Bellamy just turns away, folding up into the same position Murphy had just been in, and looks up at the stars.

 

* * *

 

 

“Something wrong?” Murphy finds Emori laying stiff as a board in the desert sand with a blanket wrapped tightly around her.

“Just trying to get some sleep,” she answers. “You alright?”

“Fine, why?” He sinks to the ground next to her and starts digging through his pack for his own blanket.

“You have a weird look on your face,” she says. “And I couldn’t find you. Thought something might’ve happened.”

He feels oddly relieved that she didn’t stumble upon him and Bellamy. He wonders if that means he’s doing something wrong in not telling her about everything, about that night in Murphy’s tent when she wanted to be alone. It’s not like they’re married or anything. Murphy isn’t even sure if her people do the whole marriage thing. But something about it all is nagging at him and making him feel like he has somehow fucked up again. If he did, at least this time it is over two people actually wanting to be in presence rather than everyone despising him. Small victories.

“Nothing happened.” 

“Where were you?”

“Looking at the stars,” he answers, wrapping himself up and laying down same as her. “Sometimes I can’t be with all of them at once like that. I don’t know what to say, and I know they don’t want me there. Bellamy found me when he was walking around, and we talked a little.”

“ _He_ wants you here. I can tell.”

“He’s the one I was the worst to, too,” he admits. “Well, aside from the two who aren’t breathing any more, I guess.”

“He didn’t treat you well either. But you’ve both moved on. That’s a sign of strength.”

“Hah. Well, that’s Bellamy. Always the strong one.”

They fall into a comfortable silence after that, as is their habit when night falls. She’s better at falling asleep than him, but he’s thankful for it. Her soft snores are the perfect background noise to lull him into a sleep, even if it’s a fitful one. When the familiar snores don’t come as quickly as they usually do, he starts to worry something is bothering her.

“How are your people doing with this, your brother? I should have stuck around, help them get acclimated or something.”

“Help two people who don’t like you get acclimated with a group of people that also don’t like you?” Emori teases gently. “I think I can forgive you.”

He laughs along with her. “Hell, no one likes me, do they? You and Bellamy seem to be the only people who can stand me.”

Emori hums in agreement. “You don’t need to choose, you know. Not unless you feel like you have to.” She stops there, and he stays silent, unsure of what she means and not wanting to say the wrong thing. “Between me and Bellamy, I mean. I don’t expect that of you, if that’s what has you worried. And if another were to enter my life, I would hope you wouldn’t expect me to choose either. It’s not our way.”

“Is it that Columbia guy?” Murphy asks. “Because I have to tell you, he’s creepy as fuck. You could do better.”

Emori laughs again, and Murphy can’t help but smile at the sound of it. “No, not Columbia. He’s like a brother to me. But I have been with others.” 

“Well, I hadn’t been until last week,” he tells her. Maybe it was best to just get two truths he’s been holding in out of the way at once. "I still haven’t really been, with others, or anyone. Bellamy and I made out a little. Twice now, I guess. Fuck, that’s so weird to say out loud.”

When he turns, he’s surprised to find an amused smirk on Emori’s face, and he’s not sure how he should feel about it. Did he want her to be jealous? Did he want her to not give a shit so he could keep on making out with Bellamy without feeling guilty? Who the fuck knows.

“Is that all then?”

Murphy feels himself blushing again. “Look, I got locked up when I was a kid, and they had pretty strict rules about that stuff. Not that anyone liked me anyways. And then I got thrown down here, and there’s like maybe three days before this shit turns into an all-out war zone, and it _definitely_ takes more than three days for me to grow on someone and—”

“Stop talking,” Emori breaks in, suddenly leaning over him when he hadn’t even seen her emerge from her blanket. She rests her hands at the base of his skull, twisting her fingers into the sandy, tangled locks of his hair, and then kisses him more deeply than they’ve ever kissed before. When her tongue twists around his, he wonders just how he, John Murphy, perpetual social pariah, has been kissed by two people insanely out his league in the span of minutes.

She pulls away far too quickly, and lets out a little whine that makes her laugh again. “I’m afraid it’s too cold to do much more than that.”

She’s right, and he hates himself even more for not being with her when he had the chance. “Sleep a little closer, okay?”

Emori nods and tucks herself against him once she's huddled away in her blanket again. It isn’t long before the soft snoring begins, but he still can’t fall asleep. His mind is racing from the events of the day. Could he really love them both? Could that actually be allowed? Had he completely lost it and all of this was just a very vivid hallucination of his lonely, fucked up mind?

He sighs and looks up at the stars again and decides he’s going to do what he does best and stop giving a fuck. _I could die tomorrow,_  he reasons, _we could be attacked by Grounders or City of Light drones or rogue zoo animals or two-headed desert monsters._ People like them don’t have the luxury of makings plans.


	5. The Silent Treatment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bellamy isn’t speaking to him. At first he thinks he might just be paranoid, seeing angry glances and sneered lips where there aren’t any. He’s so used to being one snarky comment away from a beating that maybe he hasn’t quite adjusted to this new Bellamy who kisses him and smiles at him and wraps his arm around him in public. But when their group finally takes a break mid-morning for some water and a light breakfast, any doubt he still has disappears. Bellamy definitely isn’t speaking to him.

Bellamy isn’t speaking to him. At first he thinks he might just be paranoid, seeing angry glances and sneered lips where there aren’t any. He’s so used to being one snarky comment away from a beating that maybe he hasn’t quite adjusted to this new Bellamy who kisses him and smiles at him and wraps his arm around him in public. But when their group finally takes a break mid-morning for some water and a light breakfast, any doubt he still has disappears. Bellamy _definitely_ isn’t speaking to him.

When they finally come to a stop at Clarke’s orders, Murphy walks over to Bellamy to ask if he has enough water left. Of course he does, Bellamy is too responsible to squander the few resources they have, but Murphy doesn’t really care about the answer so much as he cares whether Bellamy is willing to answer it.

Bellamy simply grunts and turns his back to him, and Murphy feels like he might vomit. Just yesterday, Bellamy had draped his arm around Murphy’s shoulders, had kissed him with everyone else just steps away around the fire, not caring if they saw. Just yesterday, everything had been perfect and now it feels like all the progress they made has been lost. The worst part of it all is he can’t figure out what the hell he could have done to fuck it all up so quickly.

_Just ask him what’s wrong._ It is a simple enough solution but easier said than done for a coward like him. Murphy can’t bring himself to ask, because he’s terrified he already knows the answer and can’t bear to hear it. Bellamy kissing him must have been a mistake, a burst of insanity, and the older boy has finally come to his senses. Or, worse, what if this had all been in his head the entire time? What if Bellamy was just fucking with him? Finally giving him what he’s always wanted, only to snatch it away and treat him like a outcast again.

“Are you alright, John?” Emori slips her good hand into his, lacing their dusty fingers together. “You’re moping."

“I’m fine,” he snaps back, too quickly. “Just tired.”

She smirks. “We were only out of the desert for a month or so. Have you already gone soft?”

“I haven’t gone fucking soft,” he grumbles, tearing his eyes away from the back of Bellamy’s head to glare at her. “Guess I’m just tired of marching toward certain death all the time. I feel like there’s nothing good waiting for me at the end of all this.”

“Like I would let you die, John Murphy,” she laughs, nudging her elbow into his ribs. “I’m not sure anyone could kill you anyways. You might just be invincible.”

“Yeah, sure, like a cockroach,” he drones, even though he feels a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. It’s too hot for them to be this close, but he doesn’t mind the press of her body against his. It’s comforting. The feel of her and the obvious affection in her voice almost quells the waves of panic crashing over him, but it can’t stop the voice in his head sneering  _what did you do what did you do what did you do you’ve ruined everything._  

“And what do you mean nothing good waiting for you?” she asks, nudging him again. “A safe place to live and freeing captive children doesn’t sound good to you?"

He knows she’s speaking, but he can’t quite understand the words. Something else has demanded his attention. His stomach twists uncomfortably when he notices Bellamy shooting another glare his way, the most vicious one so far. It cuts right into him, and he wants to collapse right there in defeat. He hopes it doesn’t show on his face, because Emori isn’t one to let things go when she thinks Murphy is upset. “You really think we’ll be able to do this?” he asks, before she can tell anything is amiss. Maybe talking about their impending invasion will be enough to distract him.

“Yes, I do. I think we have a good chance at least,” she answers. “The Lady of the City is dangerous, and many of the people believe her bullshit, but not all of them. There were plenty of people who didn’t like what was being done to the defected but too afraid of losing their home to challenge her. And if we can free the children that have inevitably been locked away—”

“You would have the children fight?”

“Of course I would,” she snaps, glaring at him nearly as harshly as Bellamy. _Great. At this rate you’ll be back to being alone again in no time._ “What are you, if not a child? We are young, John, but we are strong. We fought for everything we have, and so will they. They’ll fight for their freedom. They’ll help us destroy the Lady.” 

A shiver seems to pass over Emori whenever she speaks those words— _the Lady_. She doesn’t seem to know much about her, just that she rules over the City of the Light and that somehow she sees everything that happens within those walls. _She has technology we never could understand_ , she had explained to the others before they departed, _But you have technology, too. You can fight her._

Murphy nods and grips her hand a little tighter despite the sweat now clinging to their pressed palms. “We’ll see soon enough, I guess. I hope those poor fuckers she locked away have been practicing their punches.”

“Sometimes the will to fight means more than skill.”

“And sometimes the big guy with the gun kicks your ass anyways.”

Emori snorts out a laugh that surprises him. She’s not the laughing type, usually only smirking at his shitty jokes. “Yes, I suppose you’re right, John. And, yet, somehow you and that smart mouth of yours are still alive." 

“Well, I’m invincible, right?”

She smiles and presses a sweaty palm to his cheek. “My sweet little cockroach,” she teases, before pulling away from him. 

His nose scrunches up. “Hey,” he grumbles, as she starts to walk away, “I’d like to formally object to that pet name.”

 

* * *

 

 

Clarke makes one of her long, boring speeches when they finally reach the water separating them from the City of Lights. She goes over the plan for what feels like the millionth time--how one group will take care of the sea monster and then ferry the others across, while Raven, Wick, and Monty head back to the solar panels to find a way to shut the City down long enough for them to get inside.

Raven and Wick have built some contraption that can detect the sea monster that almost took off Murphy’s arm before it attacks their boat. They hang it off the side of the tiny canoe that was ominously waiting for them when they reached the shore. Murphy knew it would be there before they came to the top of the hill. How else would they lure more unsuspecting travelers to the City. They’re more prepared to kill the stupid monster thing now, guns and knives in hand. The only problem is the new boat is so small that it can only safely fit two people. Of course, the Princess takes it upon herself to decide who the first two lucky bastards should be.

“Alright, well, obviously Murphy has to go,” she begins.

“I’m failing to see why that’s obvious,” he replies, grimacing. “You hoping he wants to come back for seconds?” he asks, holding up his scarred arm.

“Because you’re the only one who knows the area, asshole,” Raven interjects. “Did you see any other boats while you were over there?”

“Yeah,” Murphy sighs, knowing exactly where she’s going with this.

“And you know where they are, yeah?”

“Yeah, I guess, fine, whatever. I’ll go and offer myself up as sweet sea monster bait,” he relents, holding up his hands. “But whoever comes with me better be fucking good with a gun.”

“Of course, that’s why Bellamy is going with you,” Clarke declares, nodding her head in a way that makes it clear the decision is final. “You two go across, Bellamy kills the monster, and then one of you brings back a better boat. Preferably Bellamy, because I don't particularly feel like listening to Murphy whine anymore.”

“Wait, who says I don’t kill the monster?” Murphy retorts. “And don't get all cranky, Princess. No need to worry, I’ll take care of your Prince.”

Judging by the way Bellamy’s eyes narrow and his fists curl into balls at his side, he doesn’t find Murphy’s joke particularly funny. It looks like he’d rather throw himself off a cliff than have sit in a canoe alone with Murphy, but he doesn’t argue with Clarke. For the second time that day, Murphy feels like he might vomit.

“Alright, off we go then,” Murphy says, trying to sound cheerful. Instead, his voice cracks like a preteen boy. “Your machine better work, Reyes.”

“It’ll work,” she says, puffing out her chest. “Don’t fuck it up, Murphy.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t let him.” Bellamy appears behind him, and shoves him roughly forward. It catches Murphy off guard, and he nearly takes a header into the canoe, just managing to catch himself and stay upright.

Murphy turns to sneer something at him, but when he does, Bellamy is on the ground, flat on his back. “If you touch John like that again, I’ll fucking end you.” Emori is standing over Bellamy, good hand hovering dangerously over the long knife slung against her hip. “He is one of you, and you should treat your own with respect.”

Everyone falls silent. Bellamy pushing Murphy around is nothing new to the rest of them, but someone actually protesting it certainly is. They don’t know how to react. They’re all waiting on Bellamy’s reaction, waiting for him to bite back and list off all the awful things Murphy has done to deserve so much more than being pushed into a canoe. But Bellamy stays quiet. And if Murphy didn't know better, he might think Bellamy actually looks guilty. But why should he? Can someone like him really demand respect? After everything he’s done?

Murphy walks over to Emori and wraps an arm around her back. He leans in close and whispers in her ear, “I’ve done terrible things to them, Em. I don’t—”

“You _do_!” she practically shouts, drawing everyone’s attention to them instead of Bellamy. “We have all made mistakes, John, but you are doing a good thing for these people. You are trying to make a life for them, and they owe you respect!" 

The maddening silence falls over them again. His heart starts beating so violently against his chest, he fears he might actually drop dead. He’s trying to think of something sarcastic to say to break the tension, to make everything go back to normal, but Bellamy stands and claps him on the shoulder before the words can form on his lips.

“I’m sorry, John.” The first time Bellamy had used his first name, it pissed him off, but now it makes his stomach flutter in a way that he hates. “It won’t happen again.” 

Murphy snorts at that. “Yeah, we’ll see about that, Blake.” He shrugs his shoulder away from Bellamy’s grasp and squeezes his arm around Emori, an unspoken thank you. With one last look to the still silent group behind him, he marches toward the canoe, away from the stares and awkwardness. Even a sea monster is preferable to this.

 

* * *

 

They row in complete silence for ten minutes, and Murphy is sure they are the longest ten minutes of his entire life. They are so painfully awkward he almost wishes the sea monster would finally appear and try to take a bite out of him, so he could think about anything other than Bellamy fucking Blake and what the hell was going on in his stupid, curly-haired head.

When Bellamy sighs for the hundredth time, Murphy can’t take it anymore. It doesn’t matter how afraid he is of what he’s done, it doesn’t matter how much he dreads the confirmation that he doesn’t mean anything to Bellamy Blake and never did, he just can’t stand this any longer.

“So, are you ever going to tell me why you’re pissed at me?” Bellamy doesn’t answer right away. Murphy’s thankful he’s at the front of the canoe, facing forward, so he can’t overanalyze the expression on the other boy’s face.

“Who says I’m pissed at you?”

“Oh, I don’t know, just absolutely everything about you,” Murphy intones. “You’ve been looking at me like you want to string me up and kick out the crate again all morning. Hell, I thought you were going to punch me for asking if you had enough water.”

Bellamy lets out sigh number one hundred and one, and Murphy grips tighter to his oar to keep from punching him in his stupid mouth. “I’m not going to punch you, Murphy.”

“I’d rather you punch me than ignore me.” It takes a moment for Murphy to realize he hadn’t just _thought_ those words but had actually _spoken_ them out loud. He feels his face flush a hot, violent red, and he wishes he could take it back without sounding even more pathetic. _Why the hell would you say something so fucking desperate?_

Bellamy falls quiet again. After an entire minute passes without response, Murphy feels his body start to seize up, like an elastic about to snap. “If you don’t say something in the next thirty seconds, I’m going to fucking throw myself off this canoe. I’m not fucking kidding.”

Instead of answering, he hears Bellamy start chuckling quietly to himself. “Laughing at me doesn’t fucking count.” This just makes Bellamy laugh louder. “You are _such_ a shithead, and you are going to be so sorry when I turn myself into sea monster chow in ten… nine… eight… seven…” Murphy starts leaning over the side of the boat, but a strong grip pulls him back.

“Don’t you dare,” Bellamy says, laughter still in his voice. “You’re such a fucking drama queen.”

“Says the grown man giving me the silent treatment.”

“I wasn’t giving you the silent treatment!”

“Yes, you were!” Murphy shouts back. “That’s what not talking to someone out of spite is, asshole. You can’t just make out with me and then treat me like I screwed your sister or something. You’re going to give me a complex.”

“Oh my god, stop acting so fucking _wounded_ ,” Bellamy sneers. Murphy is still facing forward, but he can practically feel Bellamy’s scowl searing into his back. “This is _your_ fault.”

_Why is everything always my fault?_ “I’m that bad of a kisser, huh?”

“You’re a perfectly adequate kisser.”

“Stop, I’m swooning.”

“You’re not nearly as funny as you think you are.”

“And you’re so much more annoying than you think you are, so I guess we’re even.” A large hand lands on his shoulder and roughly pulls him back, forcing him to finally meet Bellamy’s eyes. “Reyes said I needed to keep my eyes on her contraption at all times. _Don’t even fucking blink_ , she said. You trying to get us killed?”

“I’m _trying_ to have a real conversation with you, and you’re acting like a child.”

“You couldn’t have had a real conversation with me when we weren’t in danger of being attacked by a mutant sea thing at any moment?”

Bellamy rolls his eyes, but his shoulders relax slightly. “I was still too mad at you. I was afraid of what I’d say." 

“And you’re mad at me because—?” Bellamy’s mouth falls open, clearly stunned by Murphy’s ignorance. “Look, I’m a moron. This is well established. I’m not going to pick up on your subtle clues or whatever. We’re not girls, just tell me what’s wrong or punch me or something.”

“You really don’t know?”

Suddenly, he realizes how badly he’s sweating. There are beads of moisture building around his hairline and along his upper lip. When he squeezes his hands around the oar, they’re soaking wet. He’s nervous about where this conversation is going, over possibly losing Bellamy when he just finally got him. He’s so fucking nervous, but he was nowhere to run, not while trapped in this stupid fucking canoe. “No, I really fucking don’t,” he admits. “I’ve been thinking about it all morning, and I can’t figure it out.”

Bellamy grins, and it only makes Murphy’s heart race faster. “You’ve been thinking about me all morning, huh?”

“Now who’s acting like a child?”

“Fine,” Bellamy mutters, though the grin remains. “If I _really_ have to spell it out to you—”

“You do. Speak slowly. I’ve never been the brightest bulb.”

“God, you’re so obnoxious.” Bellamy looks away from him, out into the dark expanse of water surrounding them. “Last night, we kissed or whatever. And it was nice, I thought. We weren’t drunk or anything. It was just us and it was good, or I thought it was good at least." 

_It was good. So good._ Murphy wants to assure him of that, but Bellamy’s still not meeting his eyes, and he thinks it best to let him finish.

“And what do you do immediately after?” he continues, a frown forming on his lips. “You run off to sleep with your girlfriend.”

_Oh._ It suddenly makes all the sense in the world and no sense at all. _He’s jealous. He’s fucking jealous. He fucking likes me._ A grin spreads across his lips that he’s helpless to stop. There’s a warmth building inside of him that would probably annoy him if he wasn’t so damned relieved.

“Are you fucking smiling?” Bellamy snaps, meeting his eyes again. “I’m trying to have a real conversation with you, and you’re smiling like an idiot. God, you’re the absolute worst.”

Murphy takes a deep breath, forcing himself to be thoughtful. Though the situation isn’t quite as dire as he expected, there is still a chance for him to fuck this up beyond repair, and that is the last thing he wants. He isn’t sure about what that means for him and Emori. All he knows is how desperately he wants to lunge across the canoe and crash his lips against Bellamy’s again.

“Sorry,” he manages, when he’s sure the smile is gone. “I just—I can’t believe you’re _jealous_. Bellamy fucking Blake is jealous. Because of _me_ , of all people.”

“I’m not jealous!” he exclaims, too abruptly and loudly to be taken seriously. “It was just fucking inconsiderate, you know? We were—I thought we were starting something, but if you’re already with her then, I don’t know, just tell me, and I’ll back off.” Bellamy looks away from him, studying his shoes this time. It’s strange for Bellamy not to look him in the eye, not to stare back with so much confidence that Murphy feels like shrinking beneath his gaze. He's considering if maybe the desert is messing with his head, when it finally strikes him—not only is Bellamy jealous, he’s also _nervous_. And it’s so nauseatingly endearing that Murphy isn’t sure whether he wants to gag or latch on to the other boy and never let him go. “You going to say anything?”

_Think before you speak. Think before you speak._ Murphy grabs his canteen and takes a long sip of water to buy himself some time. Should he apologize? Would he mean it if he did? He’s never been very good with apologies, so he offers the truth instead. “Honestly, I didn’t think you’d give a shit.”

“What?”

“What, like you’re some paragon of monogamy? Mbege and I were keeping a running count of the number of girls you fucked.”

Bellamy groans and waves his hand. “I don’t want to know the number.”

“No, you really, really don’t.”

“Okay, so fine, I don’t have the best track record with—with—”

Murphy laughs out loud, cutting off Bellamy’s thought. “You can’t even fucking say the word relationship, can you?” Bellamy scoffs at him but doesn’t actually argue. “So, what I’m hearing, is it’s totally fine for you to fuck around, but if someone does that to you then—”

“That’s not it at all!” Bellamy interrupts. “I didn’t care if those girls went off with other people. But I wasn’t fucking around on you.”

“Yeah, because you already know all these people,” Murphy says. “If you throw some hot strangers into the mix, I bet—" 

“I bet I’d still just be interested in figuring out what the hell is going on here,” he says, motioning between him and Murphy. “I never feel like this. I don’t know what to do with this. You’ve been driving me insane since that first night in your tent. And if you’re in love with her, I just want to know, so I don’t drive myself insane for something I can’t have.”

A tight knot forms in his stomach. He dreads what he feels like is coming next. He doesn’t want to make the choice he’s worried Bellamy wants him to make. Emori is his best friend. Emori is the first person to really _know_ him and not leave him. Emori has made him feel worthy of respect and friendship and love in a way no one else has been able to since his father died and his mother disappeared into a booze-soaked black hole of misery. He would be utterly insane to throw away a chance at making a life with her to risk trying for whatever this was with Bellamy Blake of all people. A relationship that begins with not one but two attempted murders probably isn’t destined for long-term success. This is simply lust. This is hatred confusing itself with passion.

_You don’t need to choose, you know. Not unless you feel like you have to._ The words play through his mind again. He’s been thinking about them since she said them, thinking about if what she suggested could actually be possible. “Emori doesn’t believe in monogamy,” Murphy finally speaks. “We—we care for each other, but she doesn’t expect, _you know_.”

Bellamy huffs out a laugh. “I fucking knew it.”

“You fucking knew _what_?” 

“You want us both. You actually think that’s an option. You’re such a selfish asshole. You haven’t changed at all and—”

“Hey, hey!” Murphy cuts in. “Could you maybe not act like I just murdered someone? I’m trying here, but I don’t know how any of this works! How the fuck would I? I’m a pathetic virgin who never expected one person to want me, let alone two, so can you just cut me some slack here?”

Bellamy’s eyes go wide. “You’re—you’re a what now?”

“I’m not saying it again.” Murphy feels his cheeks flushing again. Clouds have filled the sky, of course, so he can’t even blame it on the sun. Bellamy is gaping at him, like Murphy has just revealed he’s magic or has a secret twin. “Would you fucking stop that? I’m still a fucking teenager last I checked, it’s not _that_ weird.” 

“I had no idea. I’m sorry?”

“Virginity isn’t a disease. You don’t need to offer your condolences.”

“No, condolences are in order, I think,” Bellamy says, smirking. “You’d understand if you had ever sex. Especially with me.”

Murphy blushes even more aggressively at the thought. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” All of Bellamy’s usual confidence has returned—the way he’s holding himself, the way he barely even blinks as his eyes bear down on Murphy’s, the lazy smile on his face. “Fuck, I’m sorry,” he laughs, rubbing his face. “I’ve been a huge brat about this, haven’t I?”

“You _are_ being a little clingy,” Murphy admits. “We’ve only made out twice.”

“There was also some brief humping, from what I recall. That’s like the dude on dude version of second base." 

“Nah, I think that’s blowjobs.”

Bellamy coughs at that, seeming to choke on his own spit. “You’re awfully cheeky for a _virgin_.” Murphy doesn’t like the way Bellamy is emphasizing that word. He’s sure he’d be more embarrassed about it if there weren’t such a predatory look in Bellamy’s at that moment, like he was barely restraining himself from taking Murphy right there in the boat, sea monsters be damned.

If Murphy leaned forward, Bellamy would kiss him. He’s certain of it. But that wouldn’t solve anything, and they’d probably be back to awkward glances and glares before long, so he resists the temptation. “Emori means a lot to me,” he sighs. “She’s the only person who knows me.”

“I know you.”

“No, you don’t. Even Reyes knows me better than you do.”

“Well, I’d like to.” Murphy bites down on the inside of his lip and tries to find the right words, but Bellamy speaks again before he can. “It’s up to you, John.” The sound of his name again sends a fucking stampede of butterflies fluttering though his gut. “But if we try _this_ ,” he motions between them again, “Then I want it to be only us. I realize that’s not particularly fair and probably hypocritical, but I’m not the same person I was when we first landed on earth. And I don’t think you are either.”

_What the hell could you possibly even like about me? You could have anyone you want, why would you settle for an asshole like me? And why did you never want me before, when I would've done anything you asked of me?_ The scrape of a rock against the side of the canoe keeps him from asking the questions. He turns to see the shore quickly approaching. “Well, looks like we made it without getting eaten,” he says, climbing over the edge to start pulling them in. “Maybe he didn’t want to interfere with our little heart-to-heart.”

“Maybe he already ate?” Bellamy suggests, as they drag the boat on to the sand.

“Well, fuck, that’s dark.”

Bellamy shrugs, as he looks around, taking in the discarded remotes and phones and other devices littering the ground around them. “Just a thought.”

Murphy watches Bellamy as he walks around, occasionally leaning down to run his hand curiously over some abandoned object or another. Even draped in layers of ripped, sandy fabric, Murphy can still make out the lines of his body, the strength in his arms. He remembers how it felt to be wrapped in those arms. He remember the weight of Bellamy pressing down on to him. It should have scared him, being trapped like that, but it didn’t. Instead, he had felt safe, wonderful, warm, wanted… “Hey, Blake, can I show you something?”

“Shouldn’t we find the bigger boat?" 

“Plenty of time for that,” Murphy says. “Trust me, you’ll like this.” He summons up all the courage he has and reaches out to grab Bellamy’s arm. Bellamy doesn’t argue, just follows close behind him. They are almost to the lighthouse Murphy could’ve happily spent the rest of his life inside if not for the idiots Jaha left him with, when the sound of people talking suddenly fill the air around them.

The two of them fall to the ground instinctively. “What the fuck is that?” Bellamy whispers, wrapping an arm around Murphy so that he’s nearly on top of him. “I thought you said they didn’t come down to the beach.”

“We never saw any!” Murphy hisses back. “Emori said only the banished leave the City.”

Just then, a rough-looking group of people emerge from behind a nearby hill to their right. Most just have long knives swinging against their hips, but some have guns slung across their backs as well. It’s hard to tell from where they are, but Murphy would guess there’s a hundred of them at least.

“Who the hell are they?”

Murphy just smiles and pushes Bellamy away from him to stand up. He knows exactly who these people are.


End file.
